He Sleeps Under the Hill Book II
by Bob G. Leeman
Summary: Interlogue 2: At the First Stedding. A not-so brief interval in the story, set during the early years of the Breaking of the World.
1. Chapter 7: Under the Hill

_There is a King beneath a Hill who slumbers sound and deep_

_He waits until the Wheel comes 'round to waken from his sleep_

_For he has sworn to live again and make the Dark One weep._

_**The Sleeping King**_

**Ancient verse; attributed to Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai**

**Vulgar translation by Roth Blucha, Gleeman**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 7 * Under the Hill<strong>_

**Part I : Morning**

N'aethan opened his large eyes and blinked them slowly. He could hear the Box powering-down, which meant that in perhaps one hundred and twenty chimes, it would open. He thought so, anyway, though he had never been inside a Stasis Box before. They were usually used for storing other things… they certainly were not _comfortable._ N'aethan shifted position, the back of his head pressing into the rolled fancloth poncho he was using as a pillow. His upper arms were held rigidly at his sides by the confines of the thick-walled Box, hands resting on his chest. He raised them awkwardly, slid his palms beneath his skull, cushioning it further… and then whistled a rising scale. The acoustics in here were a little strange. N'aethan cleared his throat, then sang a phrase from Ottakasi's _Carlinyi Sama'drova_, the amusing bit from the middle aria of the Second Act, where stupid old Phra er'Tilion complains so bitterly about all three of his unfaithful wives… it did not sound too bad, considering.

N'aethan frowned. Why was the Box deactivating again, so soon after its activation? Perhaps it was malfunctioning. But if it was, he would not be engaged in idle speculation… he would be dead. Or worse.

N'aethan raised his head and glanced cautiously down at his booted feet. His soft exhalation held a note of relief. At least his legs (and some other things that were important to him) were still there. He had once heard of a failed experiment with one of these Boxes, where only the top half of the test-subject had remained in Stasis while the rest… no… no, he did not want to think about _that_. Besides, this was not just _any_ Stasis Box, old Ledrin had told him, this was a _Jorlen Corbesan_ design. He felt privileged to even be inside the damned thing, he was going to _tell_ people about it, perhaps even boast of the experience. He was perfectly safe. Hopefully…

N'aethan did not fear death, as such… if he died, then he died. But he did not wish to die in a _meaningless_ way. No, the deactivation of the Box _must_ be deliberate.

N'aethan sighed resignedly, wondering if Father had forgotten to tell him something, or had changed his mind about all of this. It would be _typical_ if he had! In which case, he supposed that he might as well go upstairs and await the arrival of the once-Companion to the Dragon, Haindar Javagd. And hopefully, _kill_ the madman. Though he did not think that he would survive _that_ battle. Haindar was not like the others. He, Jaric, Lorrs, perhaps Samatael… they were all almost as strong in the Power as Lews Therin Telamon had been himself.

Even when just thinking about him, N'aethan always respectfully used the Dragon's full name, when most others merely called him 'Kinslayer.' Or worse. But he had met the Tamyrlin once, when he was only a young child. Lews Therin Telamon had been nice to him. He had liked the man very much. Yes, he might as well at least _try_ to kill Haindar. He had little else to do with himself, since Latra Sedai was gone now.

N'aethan winced. It had been more than six months, but the pain was still there, throbbing away like a broken tooth. It often felt as though there was a hole in his being, from whence something important to him had been wrenched. It was aggravating – he wasn't supposed to _feel _things, that was the whole _point_ of Father's Design! Well, part of it, at least. He had never had feelings in the early days, certainly, when he went back up north to the wars…everyone in the military-camps scared of him, though hiding their fear behind bravado and censure. He had not _needed_ feelings then, they had only got in the way of some of the things he had been required to do.

N'aethan supposed he had learnt how to feel from others, over the years… but that would not stop him from killing Haindar, if he could. It would be good to kill Haindar Javagd, the madman was a menace. It would also mean that he was no longer only level, but back in the lead…

N'aethan had neglected to tell Father something, though of course he would have if the ancient _Aes Sedai_ had thought to ask. Fortunately, he had not. It was a little dishonest of him to omit the information, perhaps, but he had not wanted to worry Father. Since _Shadar Nor's_ death – he winced again – N'aethan had set himself a grim task. If he _did_ manage to kill Haindar, that would make the third Companion he had slain. If they yet had any claim to that title. Did they still count as Companions to the Dragon, long after the Taint had reduced them to rotting psychotics? Incredibly dangerous, enormously powerful, rotting psychotics? He was not sure. He would have to ask Kiam Sedai… if he ever saw her again.

N'aethan had killed Auldre Choal first, which had been far from easy. Though less difficult than he had anticipated – it seemed that, at the end, the poor fellow had just wanted to die anyway. When he thought about it later, he recalled that there had been a strange look on Auldre's face when he approached cautiously to deliver the death blow, a look of almost… _relief_.

Then, a time after, N'aethan had killed Goaeur Rantoel… eventually. Goaeur had been a lot harder – _he_ had certainly not wished to have his tortured existence put to an end. Quite the opposite. It had taken a long while to recover from his injuries after Goaeur, though not so long as it did as after when he fought with the _Gholam_. But it had been worth the risk, well worth the pain. Killing a Companion was tantamount to saving a hundred thousand lives. More, probably.

N'aethan did not hate the Companions, for they were neither Friends of the Dark nor Shadow-wrought and he knew (or thought he knew) that the Dark One's Taint had been no more their fault than it had been the Dragon's… the closest he had ever come to actually _arguing_ with Latra Sedai had been on _that_ subject. No, he felt not hatred for these former Heroes of the Light, whom he had always quietly idolised, but _pity_… he would not let that stop him from killing them all, though. Every last one. _If_ he could. But probably, he could not. He had been made for another purpose, after all, a purpose fulfilled. A long time ago, now. This provided small comfort.

Auldre and Goaeur had both been relatively minor Companions, as these things were reckoned. But with the addition of Haindar… _three_ Companions to his score, instead of just two! That would be good. It would put him in the lead again. Strange, to find himself competing with a War-Sister to kill madmen who would once have been her Brothers, but there it was. These were very strange times…

During their last game, Kiam Lopiang, _Aes Sedai_, had wasted no time in mentioning that she had recently tracked-down her _second_ Companion, Veic Shuul Savoran, Flagservant – he who had once boldly carried the Dragon Banner for Lews Therin Telamon and had later roamed aimlessly, destroying everything that moved and much which did not. That new coastline, out to the west, was reportedly Veic's doing… but it was absolutely _typical_ of Kiam Sedai to have hunted and slain one of the surviving _famous_ Companions, one of those who had songs and plays written about him. Kiam was always trying to _outdo_ him… N'aethan would not have minded so much, had she not succeeded in this with such frequency!

The new coast… strange, to see the World Sea so much nearer than it had been. N'aethan had not been back to this place for many years, not since that last argument with Father, but the area had looked very different when he arrived. He wondered if Elder Brother's Tomb was still out there… but he did not think that Haindar, or even Jaric Mondoran, could destroy _that_. Veic-called-Flagservant, at least, would not be destroying anything else ever again. He almost felt sorry for the fellow – he would not like to have Kiam chasing _him!_

"_What else is there to say, Lightborn?" Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai, commented levelly, "I put the madman out of his misery." The young War-Sister made this statement with that glittering, feral smile of hers, so at odds with her dispassionate nature, then moved her Spire decisively onto his High-Counsellor's rank, setting the cuendillar piece down with the usual depressing finality. _

"Rie-mordero_. I win again. The King is dead – long-live Queen Kiam!" _

_Damnation! He had seen that coming, of course, but had not been able to prevent it, since the few defensive pieces left to him after Kiam's customary depravations had all been pinned-down. As damned usual! Damn-it!_

"_Another match, Lightborn?" Kiam Sedai suggested evenly, "if you would care to take your revenge of me?" She _always_ said that, though he had never taken that revenge but once… _even_ when she played with only one Spire! Honestly!_

"_Have you not humiliated me enough for one day, your Royal Majesty?" _

_Kiam Sedai's delicate laughter was always reminiscent of silvered bells, tinkling in the far distance. "Set the pieces again, Lightborn. Perhaps I shall play with _neither_ Spire on this occasion… hmm?" Kiam smirked._

"_Patronise me no further, Anointed Highness – is it not enough for you that I cannot prevail, even when you use but _one?_"_

_Kiam Sedai's silvery mirth sounded again, though this time slightly muffled behind a pale, slender-fingered hand swiftly raised to her mouth, over which her dark, tilted eyes twinkled with momentary merriment. Kiam _never_ laughed usually, only during their infrequent games, and then, only at _him_. Never _with_, always _at!_ Kiam lowered her hand, one of those slim digits decorated with the golden ouroboros ring, become fashionable amongst the younger Sisters. She resumed her composure. And her smirk._

"One_ Spire for the army of the Empress Lopiang, then," Kiam conceded, "and not none." The smirk became a slight sneer. "_You_ may make the first move this time, Lightborn, though _I_ shall retain the white." _

Kiam Sedai invariably played with the white pieces, he the black… white tooth matched against black claw… it always seemed appropriate, somehow. These games of _tcheran_ were somewhat excruciating, but it was less about the play – he had long-ago despaired of actually _winning_ a game from Kiam – and more the conversation. What there was of it... but it was better than nothing. A Shieldman who served the War Ajah did not have much opportunity for a social-life, after all.

N'aethan respected the Warmen, but did not relish their company. They were not really like people anymore, he considered – though _he_ was a fine one to talk! – but, since the age of ten, raised and trained as grim dealers of death. N'aethan had been bred and taught to do much the same things – though with different weapons – and from a much earlier age than _that_, but had never seen the point of such grimness. Life was to be enjoyed, where possible, was it not? Even _his._ Besides, the Warmen tended to regard him with a level of awe that he found uncomfortable, whereas he had certainly never received that kind of regard from Kiam – far from it!

Kiam Sedai was _rude_, even when compared with some of the _other_ War-Sisters! She _always_ called him 'Lightborn' to his face, though she was well aware of his proper title – accorded him by Vora Samm Raijan, _Aes Sedai_, the War Ajah General herself. Kiam of all people should have known this, since she had stood Apprentice to Vora _Aes Sedai_, up until her death.

N'aethan might have said something, it was certainly his right… but Kiam Sedai _was_ a War-Sister, if a rather junior, low-ranking one, so he accepted her addressing him as 'Lightborn' with the equanimity of a _Da'shain_. He did not really mind, in any case – if there had been a time when she had used the name primarily as an insult, there was at least a touch of respect in the way she said it now. Though not affection… never that.

Though he could not be entirely sure, N'aethan suspected that Kiam Sedai probably disliked him. She did not seem to much care for males in general (and in particular, when they could channel and were insane, which he supposed was understandable) so perhaps it was not _entirely_ personal… the very occasional lovers she took into her bed were always female, he had noticed. But aversion aside, Kiam had come to respect his abilities, his devotion to duty. Eventually. And you did not necessarily have to be _friends_ with someone in order to engage in friendly rivalry with them. Indeed, it was – oddly enough – more _enjoyable_ when you were enemies! So, he did not mind it so much, when she called him 'Lightborn' to his face. It was certainly a substantial improvement on 'monster' or 'freak' or 'abomination.'

N'aethan sighed, gustily. Though he _did_ mind that Kiam had two notches on her belt now, the same amount as him… it would be sweet indeed, to be able to tell her that he had killed Haindar. If Father _had_ changed his mind, then he would return to the Northborder and eliminate _twice_ the Companions _she_ did! At least, until one of them eliminated him back, he supposed. Most of them were up there still, in the Mountains of Dhoom or the Blasted Lands, if more were making their slow and catastrophic way south every day… though the second wave of the Taint was spreading rapidly through the remaining ranks of the male _Aes Sedai_, and a lot of _them_ were down _here_. The Time of Madness was truly upon them, it seemed, and these days, the Great Blight was much closer to the Black College than it had been.

It might not be possible to halt this Breaking of the World via the mere act of killing… but it was better than doing nothing at all. This was one of the very few things that he and Kiam Sedai saw eye-to-eye on. Not many others did. Things were falling apart in earnest, now. The driving of the Shadow-wrought from the southern territories and the series of small, vicious wars with the Renegades along (and sometimes, within) the Blight had kept the remnants of the Northern Armies at least whole and cohesive. Now that the Renegades were dealt with, discipline was breaking down, Warmen and even War-Sisters abandoning their posts and fleeing south.

N'aethan did not particularly care. It was a big problem, but it was not _his_ problem. He was no high-ranking War Ajah Sitter to have to concern himself with such large issues, thank the Light! No, as long as he killed _more_ of the remaining Companions than Kiam Sedai did, then he would be content. He would defeat her in _this_ at least, for all that he had never won a game of _tcheran_ from the woman in his life! He was merely an adequate player, much as he enjoyed it and worked hard at it, he just did not seem to have the mental discipline to properly master the game. Kiam did.

Though their competing efforts to defeat the Breaking hardly comprised a fair contest either. Kiam Sedai had the twisted _sa'angreal_ wand that Vora _Aes Sedai_ placed in her hand when she was yet dying from a Darkhound's venom. N'aethan had noticed poor Vora do it himself, whilst disposing of the last of the foul Shadowdogs, and had later stood witness to the fact that the _sa'angreal_ was Vora's testament to her Apprentice, the only reason the War Ajah Council had even allowed Kiam to _keep_ it… a Sister as young as Kiam Lopiang with a _sa'angreal_, instead of the usual soldier's _angreal_, was utterly unheard of! Kiam could tear down the Heavens with that thing! What did _he _have to compare with it? The same old weapons as ever. And his Shield, of course, but you had to get damned _close_ to the madman before it took effect – and the madman might not wish to _let_ you get that close… Goaeur Rantoel certainly had not.

N'aethan retrieved a hand from behind his head and idly ran a thick fingertip over the smooth, metallic chevron he wore on his chest, tracing the symbol of the Servants in the centre, the sinuous line, white tooth and black claw, merged together. He always found his Shield reassuring, it was part of him. As he was part of it, also.

Abruptly, N'aethan grinned what an observer (had there been one) might have described as an extremely mischievous grin. He wondered if Kiam Sedai yet realised that he had sabotaged her grid-map whilst she slept and led her through the ruined lands in meandering circles all morning, before slipping away to the _Collam Doon_. Which location, her grid-map was doubtless informing her, lay some twenty leagues to the west of its _actual_ position, where the churning waves of the much-closer ocean rolled over what had once been the heartlands of the Rorn M'doi! That was the trouble with grid-maps, with their neat little points of light and glowing, circled objectives – one became over-reliant on the things. All Kiam had really needed to do was discard the malfunctioning _ter'angreal_ and use her _eyes_ to search for a heartstone bunker-dome set into the side of the dark-faced cliff that had given the Black College its name – there was only _one_ like it in the vicinity, after all!

Did young Kiam, swathed in the fancloth so frowned-upon by the older Sisters (stately and resplendent in their antique streith gowns and shimmerweave robes) _really_ think that he had not noticed that she was following him? Probably. She was confident of her abilities, and had a right to be, but was prone to overconfidence also, he had noted. And these abilities did not include the level of stealth he had been required to employ on occasion, particularly within the Blight. Kiam could thrash him at _tcheran_ as many times as she liked, but when it came to moving through broken country, silent and unseen… then _he_ was the Master, _she_ merely adequate!

N'aethan was still not sure why Kiam Sedai had been dogging his trail, tracking him so ineptly to the Black College. Perhaps she wanted to add Father to her score? That would not count, Father had never been a Companion – he would not have wanted to be one and in any case, they wouldn't have had him! It would be _typical_ of her if Kiam tried to cheat like that… besides, Father was not insane yet (well, no more insane than he had ever been, at least) or if he _was_, then he had seemed surprisingly lucid to N'aethan… Good luck to Kiam, if another hunt was her intent, for she would _need _it – Chaime Kufer Mors, _Aes Sedai_, was a fox she would _not_ be catching anytime soon. Father had successfully avoided the anger of the Dark One for nearly a century – he had little enough to fear from young Kiam!

N'aethan yawned, exposing teeth that, while not _very_ sharp, still looked somehow sharper than a person's teeth _should_ have looked. Was the damned thing _ever_ going to open and let him out, or was he trapped in here until he suffocated? He had always visualised a _much_ more violent demise for himself than that! Fortunate that he was not prone to claustrophobia. Though he might become so, soon enough…

When Father had indicated that he should get into this accursed Stasis Box, he had done so without hesitation. He had obedience to the Master sunk deep into his bones. When he had first gone north to join the fighting, he had done so against the express wishes of Father. The conflicting loyalties of the situation had been like a sick, gnawing sensation within him for an entire year… there were times when he had just wanted to end it all. Transferring his allegiance to Latra Sedai had saved him. He sighed. Without her, he felt lost. A redundant weapon. Useless.

_Ah, something seems to be happening now… finally…_

A line appeared in the smooth white surface that had dully filled N'aethan's vision since he opened his eyes… come to think of it, why would he have _needed_ to open them? He did not recall even closing them in the first place. Maybe he had slept awhile, or perhaps the Stasis Box _had_ fulfilled its function? He could not recall exactly what had happened when it activated… perhaps a brief, very bright flash of light? The line spread rapidly down the length of the box, then split with a loud crack, slowly dividing, the heartstone lid melting into the walls. And the Box opened.

Something was different. The light, that was it. The light had changed. It seemed much gloomier in the antechamber, now… strange.

N'aethan inhaled slowly, then sat up and stretched. That felt better. A loud gasp. He turned his head to look, though other senses had already told him that he was not alone. A slender girl was staring at him, with large, dark eyes. She was very pretty, he considered, pale and delicate, with arched, feathery eyebrows and a determined set to her small chin. Though those wide eyes were red-rimmed, and tears had left trails down her dusty face. She also had a cut on her cheek, a thin trickle of blood running to her jaw.

Automatically, N'aethan moved his hand to the physic-pack at his belt… he was glad that he did, in any case, for it reminded him that he had removed his gloves. Since only Father had been present, he had taken the opportunity to do so. He pulled the reinforced gauntlets from his belt and slipped them back on over his fingers. He did not think that she had seen anything…

N'aethan took a quick glance at the girl, taking care to keep his eyes hooded. She was presumably a Citizen. A Civilian. Her chestnut hair was arranged in a curled, antique style and she wore an unusual, embroidered silken gown, like the costume in a History-play. The girl took a careful step closer, dark, liquid eyes fixed on him, her hands slightly raised. Yes, she _did_ seem like a Thespian, this slim young damsel, she had… presence.

N'aethan had never much cared for the Histories, though more so than for the base, musical-comedies that Father favoured, the dialogue and songs delivered in the vulgar Low Chant – his preference had always been for Tragedy. He liked the old tales of vengeance and retribution and doomed love. Doomed love, especially.

Of course, Thespians performing in Tragedy also wore the ancient costume of the Histories, since the events these stories were supposedly based on had always taken place long ago, at the very beginning of the Age, or perhaps even engendered by the myths of the Age before that. Unless they were performed in modern-dress, of course, but N'aethan disliked such innovations. He thought that it looked silly…

Her silk robe was torn and besmirched in places, she reminded him a little of Mercassa in Talameia's _Fredolo and Mercassa_… no, she was more like Alandra at the end of the Final Act of Selemi's _Donitius and Alandra_, where Alandra delivers the epilogue whilst holding poor dead Donitius to her breast, the youth slain with poison by her cruel mother!

Thespians were rarely to be found anymore, but in the early days at least, troupes of them had sometimes toured the vast military camps of the Northborder, and over the years, N'aethan had managed to see seven different presentations of _Donitius and Alandra_, perhaps his favourite play of all. As well as numerous other Tragedies. Always Tragedies. Though his various duties and obligations had caused him to miss several more…

A Warman Intelligence-Officer whom N'aethan was on friendly terms with had once recorded a production of Alessandro's _Horum and Kallista _on a surveillance crystal for him to enjoy later, since at the time he was otherwise engaged protecting Latra Sedai when she had to go south to the Big Hall to meet with the War-Sitters. But viewing it had just not been the same. You needed to _be _there, to feel the raw emotion of live performance, to hear the ancient, dead, dusty words revivified and made to live again by the Thespian's craft.

Some _Donitius and Alandra _productions had been good, others indifferent, but whatever the quality, he usually found himself, by the end of that Final Act, weeping quietly in the dark … if only foolish Cuthbart had got there in time to warn Alandra about the poison, she could have switched the Pledge Cups so that it was her horrible mother and _not_ her lover who ended up drinking it! Oh well…

The pretty girl in the antique garb was still staring at him with wary confusion. This was ridiculous – was she unaware that he might not address her unless she addressed him _first?_ Could she not see the Warman's uniform he wore? His _cadin'gai_ of shattercloth? There were protocols to be observed, between Warman and Civilian! Though he was not a Warman, in the strictest sense, even if he often went guised as one… N'aethan was no Warman any more than a lion was a lynx. She did not have to know this, though.

That was not stage-blood trickling down her cheek, but real, he could smell that it was… clearly she was _not_ a costumed Thespian. Perhaps this old-fashioned garb was what she habitually wore? Peculiar. Though her oddly-cut, overlarge cape _was_ of fancloth, a familiar material at least… to the Pit with the protocols! If he got into trouble then they could take one of his silly honour plaques away from him! Or all of them, he did not even care. He assumed the various gold and silver shields were still back at the camp in the box beneath his bed, if the camp was even still there. If not, then he did not really mind what had happened to them. The only honour plaque he had ever been proud to receive was currently affixed firmly to his chest.

N'aethan took a breath and spoke, using inferior-to-superior inflection, in case the girl proved to be more important than him. He was long-inured to being in the company of people who were much more important than he was.

"Hello," N'aethan said softly, "and who might you be, young miss?"

_Is she perhaps one of Father's fancy-women? She is attractive enough to be a Courtesan, certainly... though Ledrin told me Father does not do that sort of thing anymore…no, she really does not seem like the type…_

The girl blinked, still staring at him. Her brow furrowed. N'aethan was well accustomed to being stared at, but not in _this_ fashion. Most of the staring people whose eyes he had so badly wished to avoid had known _who_ he was, even if they did not quite know _what_ he was… this strangely-dressed Civilian seemed aware of neither. He made a motion as though to stand, and she flinched away, pressing against the wall. N'aethan sat back down, raising his gloved hands meekly. She was a nervous little thing! It was very dusty in here, and… N'aethan took his first really good look at his surroundings, which _definitely_ were not as he remembered them. The pile of rubble spilling into the antechamber, for example. _That_ had not been there. The shattered, partially-collapsed archway. Same. Perhaps Haindar had done it? No… Haindar would have done worse than that. Much worse.

At which, for the first time, it occurred to N'aethan that a great many years might have passed since the Stasis Box had reopened. He felt a bit like Gwilim beneath the Hill! Except that it might have been more than only a century for him – perhaps two? Stupid of him not to have thought of it sooner, but then, he was unprepared for so odd a situation as this. His tuition in the arts of war and death had not encompassed such experiences, certainly…

Father had said he would wake when needed… something about the Dragon's rebirth? The end of the Age? How long was an Age, anyway? Much longer than two or three centuries… or was there no set figure? How long is an Age? How long is a piece of binding-web? Father said he would be _needed_… but then, Father said a lot of things that turned out to be wrong. What if the Snakes had tricked him? They liked to play tricks on people, just as much as the Foxes did… but no, Father was too smart for them. If he had proved anything, he had proved _that_.

The girl was still watching him, warily. That was a deep cut on her cheek. It needed tending to. N'aethan took a small field-dressing out of his physic-pack and, without moving the rest of himself, extended it towards her with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Though a veteran Warman Sergeant had once told him that the scariest thing about him was his smile! And it must have been true, and not a joke, because the Warmen never made jokes. Ever. The scariest thing… except for his stare… so, N'aethan did his best to keep his lids hooded, eyes demurely lowered (she would think him shy!) whilst proffering the thin, pale rectangle. The girl did not move. She looked as though she had been through some horrible experiences recently. He was all-too accustomed to seeing people who looked like that.

N'aethan withdrew his arm, mimed pressing the field-dressing to his cheek. He made a reassuring sound. This time, the girl took the dressing, snatching it away from him before retreating back to the wall. It did not take her long to figure out how to use it, tearing off the outer layer and pressing it to her cheek. Her look of surprise as the field-dressing adhered to her skin and shaped itself to the wound was comical! Who _was_ this strange girl? And what was she doing in Father's laboratory? Was she _supposed_ to be here?

N'aethan made to stand again, but the girl tensed, so he sat down once more, repressing the urge to sigh. It was tiresome here, in this stupid Stasis Box. He wanted to go outside and stand beneath the sun, if it was not night-time. He wanted to walk in the Light. So, N'aethan attempted further communication, though he wished _she_ would instead. Was the girl a mute?

"It is quite alright, miss, I will not harm you – do you know the date?"

More brow furrowing! Perhaps she had taken the Oath of Silence? There were some who still did, he had heard… though, as Father had once dryly observed, there were a great many more who _ought_ to!

"What… date… please?"

The girl licked her pale lips with a small pink tongue, then responded hesitantly, with an _extremely_ strange accent.

"You… not hurtings I! Me Servant, am. You listen, must… of All, Servant."

N'aethan blinked. "I… I beg your pardon, miss?"

"Shadow! There… dark mans… is comings! Servant-of-All!"

Was there something _wrong_ with her? Two-year-olds had a better grasp of syntax than that! And her _inflections!_ One moment addressing him as though he were the Dragon himself, the next like he were some lowly servitor! Not that he outranked servitors by _much_, but still… and _her_, an Allservant? _Ridiculous!_ How could this young girl possibly be a…

"_Servant-of-All_… obey, you now! _Obey!_"

N'aethan gaped. _Obey?_ Could she not see the symbol on his Shield? That meant he _belonged_ to the Hall, he was theirs to command! If she were truly what she claimed, would she not know it was _unnecessary_ to order him to obey? Not to mention slightly insulting… A Shieldman was the same as a Warman in this respect, he had obedience to the Servants written into his very soul… or in his case, at least, set into the core of his being (since N'aethan had always rather glumly suspected that he did not _have_ a soul) though this was, of course, beside the point. But… _obedience?_ Why, if an Allservant told him to jump off a cliff, he would go and do it!

(Though he would not be very happy about it, admittedly. It would have to be quite a tall cliff to kill him anyway, and perhaps on the way to the top he might just happen to pass by another Allservant and mention casually that he was on his way to throw himself off the precipice because the first Allservant had told him to… in case he could get the order countermanded… rescinded… but that was only fair, was it not? Let a Warman volunteer for the cliff-jumping suicide-mission, there were lots and lots of Warmen – but there was only one of him! Only one Shieldman!)

"Forgive-me miss, but I do not think…"

But it was then that N'aethan noticed the Ring. In tandem with her demand for obedience, the girl had raised a hand commandingly. Now, he thought that she looked a bit like Mercuria from Ptalamai's _Dizendra and Mercuria_, the beginning of the First Act when Mercuria is out on the balcony of the Palace, her eyes flashing angrily, shouting down at the enemy army below, telling them all to _go back home! _It was the hand that had not taken the dressing (or he would have noticed sooner) upon which she wore a small circlet of gold_._ And N'aethan found himself staring at a golden ouroboros ring – the eternal snake, biting its own tail. None but an Allservant would _dare_ to wear this symbol! The older Sisters had scorned the Ring as an affectation, but many of the younger generation had worn it, he recalled… though none so young as her! N'aethan raised his gaze from the Ring, staring at the girl, and she jumped. Oh dear… she had just noticed his eyes…

"You are _truly_ a Servant of All?" N'aethan asked, a little doubtfully. Well, perhaps more than a little… there was one way to be sure, he supposed. Quickly, he squinted, examining the girl in that special way he could, that Father had taught him. Well… there it was… she had the luminescent glow around her that meant she could touch the True Source… but he had never seen such a puny aura before, not even on a new Initiate! The girl was _ridiculously_ weak in the Power! Even Father had been stronger than her (if only slightly) and _he_ had the Drogue that the Big Hall put on him, which meant that he was less than a tenth-part his true strength! She had the shiny corona that told him she had a Talent also, but only _one_ Talent and not much of one by the looks of it… most of the Sisters had at least three… Kiam Sedai had had _seven!_

The girl must have understood _one_ of his words at least, since she was nodding emphatically. "Servant of All, yes, _me_," she confirmed. She looked at him for a long moment with that dark, liquid gaze, as though debating something with herself, then came to a decision and beckoned. "Stand-up, you… up to legs…"

So, despite his reservations, N'aethan obeyed the young _Aes Sedai_ and exited the Stasis Box with relief. Obeying. It was what he had been made to do, after all.

* * *

><p>The Myrddraal's eyeless stare held loathing as it looked down upon the dead Swordman. But it was a Myrddraal – it looked on <em>everything<em> with loathing. When it regarded its Trollocs, busily cutting the throats of the wounded, it did so with loathing too. Had it cast a recognisable reflection in a mirror, instead of just a dark, vaguely man-shaped blur, then it would doubtless have looked upon itself with loathing also.

The Swordman had taken a deep wound in his arm in addition to that in his side which the first Myrddraal he killed had given him earlier, and two large arrows stood upright from his chest, but even that had not finished him. The Swordmen who served the Firewomen took a lot of killing. They should have taken him together, but the other had not waited. The Myrddraal snarled. Its Brother had been stupid – there it lay, the Swordman's blade embedded deep in its abdomen, legs still twitching. It would not fully die until sundown. Though the loss of the human's weapon had given the Myrddraal the opportunity it needed… and even then, with his life's blood running from his ruined throat, the Swordman had _still_ not given up. The Myrddraal glanced carelessly at the slim throwing-blade that was still embedded in its shoulder. It pulled it out and tossed it away, before turning a hungry stare on the ravine below.

The Firewoman was down there… the Aes Sedai. Earlier, it had thought it felt an… itching. The Myrddraal very badly wanted to go down there, not to kill the Aes Sedai (she was to be taken alive) but to do _worse_ than kill her. But it could not. Not yet. Once again, the Myrddraal scanned the sky, impatient. Still nothing.

The Myrddraal returned its attention to the Trollocs. They were hungry, busy butchering the dead. Including the Swordman's war-steed. And its own dark horse, as well as that of its Brother. The big stallion had killed them both, as well as several Trollocs also – not all of the dead had fallen to the Swordman's blade, though he had accounted for most. The Myrddraal snarled again. Half the Fist – dead! Killed by one human, and his horse!

The wildcat Trolloc approached its Myrddraal cautiously. It stood highest amongst those left. It turned its slitted pupils on the Swordman's corpse and stroked the handle of its vicious, curved blade. The Myrddraal shook its head.

"Not to be touched."

The Myrddraal's voice sounded like rotten leather being torn asunder. The wildcat Trolloc nodded, and moved away. The Myrddraal knew that it would kill any Trolloc that attempted to disobey the order regarding the Swordman. The rare wildcat Trollocs of the Ghraem'lan Band were noted for their savagery, but also, their obedience. The Myrddraal would not have objected usually, would have let its Trollocs mutilate or devour the Swordman, but it had orders. Orders regarding the Aes Sedai, also. Baring its teeth in anger at the thought of where those orders had originated, the Myrddraal turned back to scanning the sky.

There it was. Finally. The Draghkar in the distance approached rapidly, a small dot at first, swiftly enlarging. It swept down, landing on a boulder, gripping with its claws and crouching, wings extended and beating slowly a few times, before it folded them. The feeding Trollocs eyed it with a mixture of fear and hatred. Sometimes, an insubordinate Trolloc would be given to the Draghkar, to play with. There were worse punishments, but not by much.

The Myrddraal, naturally, gazed on the Draghkar with loathing. The Draghkar stared back with its large, dark eyes, its red lips curved around its fangs in a goading smile. While not particularly intelligent, it at least knew that the Myrddraal would not kill it, for it was the only Draghkar left, and was therefore _necessary_. There was a Firewoman about! The one it had been watching earlier. It would _sing_ to her…

"Come," hissed the Myrddraal, turning and starting down the ravine. The Draghkar leapt from the boulder, straightened itself, and followed. The Trollocs remained, as ordered, since the Myrddraal would not need them now that it had the Draghkar… they would only get in the way. They both walked past the dead Swordman without a second glance, though the Myrddraal did vaguely wonder about the human's words. It understood their speech well enough, it was necessary, in order to communicate with the maggots that squirmed before the Great Lord and did His bidding. But what had the Swordman meant? Even as the light went out of his eyes, he had bared his teeth in a final, savage, blood-stained grin, and growled;

"… your Brother was _right_, Lurk…"

* * *

><p>Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, watched warily as the strange Age of Legends man responded to her last, probably very poorly-phrased instruction. He rose and slipped out of the <em>cuendillar<em> box – it looked disturbingly like a coffin – a smooth fluidity to his movements. It was not _quite_ the way that the Warders moved, but there was that same element of restrained power and dangerous grace. He stood in the corner of the antechamber, shadows falling over his face. His eyes seemed to glow a little in the gloom, until he looked down at his feet. Though he seemed ordinary enough, there was definitely something about those eyes…

Ellyth was cursing herself for not paying better attention to Serafelle's interminable, rambling lectures… she could barely read the Old Tongue, but that negligible ability was magnified to scholarly proportions when compared with how ineptly she _spoke_ it! She was not one of those Brown Sisters who conversed fluently in the language with each other – not by a long way!

Though born into an old and distinguished House, in Amadicia, only the sons of the Nobility were taught the Old Tongue. Ellyth had not minded at the time, certainly, either reading her favourite books in the library or riding her pony in broad circles around the manor-house, occasionally sticking her tongue out at her scowling younger brother, trapped on the other side of a window with his grave old tutor droning away at him – and poor Thaeus had never learnt to speak the Old Tongue particularly adeptly either! They might just as well have let him go outside and ride _his_ pony too!

Ellyth sighed and left her lingual shortcomings for another day. Her dark eyes examined the contents of the _ter'angreal_ box closely. The man seemed fairly young, perhaps approaching his third decade, was of average height, with a broad chest and powerful limbs. He wore an unusual, dark garment, that seemed to be of one piece, cut off at the elbows and knees, with a v-shaped collar. The material shimmered like snake scales as he moved, she had no idea what it was. A thick belt of the same substance was buckled about his waist, and seemed to hold various odd-looking pouches and implements. A thick, black band was wound about his head, just above his brow and over the tops of his ears, whilst gauntlets of the same hue covered his hands to the wrist, studded with some dark metal at the knuckles and fingertips.

The narrow confines of the chamber required him to stand closer to her than she would have liked, but he seemed to be trying to keep a respectful distance. Soft black boots were laced halfway up his bulging calves, his biceps strained at the short sleeves of his garment. His skin had the bronzed look of someone of a fair complexion who spends a deal of time outdoors.

A large, chevron badge was affixed over the centre of his chest, a heavy, metallic plaque decorated with a silver, sixteen-pointed star, the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai set in the centre. She found this oddly reassuring. The star looked a little like the golden sunburst in shape, she considered, but with the obvious exception of the central disc – the Children would not be adding _that_ to their cloaks anytime soon.

This shield-shaped badge was also a _ter'angreal _– a very powerful _ter'angreal_, by the feel of it. And it was… _new_. New! When they _always_ felt old – _ter'angreal_ had all been made in the Age of Legends, after all, so were old by definition. This Shield-_ter'angreal_ was… different. Puzzling. And why had she thought of it as a shield? As opposed to a badge, or a plaque? But somehow, she knew that that was exactly what it was. _A_ Shield-_ter'angreal_. Equally puzzling.

There was also a sense of another _ter'angreal _about his person… perhaps more than one, it was hard to tell, the strength of the Shield-_ter'angreal_ seemed to be blotting them out.

Ellyth beckoned again and got a better look at the man as he took a careful step into the low light. His thin stubble of hair was extremely pale… pure white, in fact, if his thick, expressive eyebrows, just visible beneath the headband, were any indication. Though he only looked a little older than she. The hair was cropped very short, close to his skull… and his eyes…

His eyes were _cobalt!_ The deep, cobalt-blue of the sky, just prior to a storm, seeming to shine a little, as though lightning flickered fitfully beyond the clouds of each iris. She had never _seen_ eyes of that colour before, on anyone, or anything, for that matter. Apart from the large eyes, he was rather ordinary looking… well, he _was_ quite attractive, really, though not in the square-jawed, bold-featured way that some women seemed to favour, his chin was quite small, as was his straight, unbridged nose, but he had high cheekbones and a wide, generous mouth that seemed made for smiling. In fact, there was even something oddly _mischievous_ about him, she imagined, though in a dangerous sort of way. And those shining, cobalt eyes, slightly hooded beneath the pale brows… they were _very_ distinctive… Why was she staring at his eyes? There was no time for this. The Shadowspawn were surely coming…

Ellyth shivered, and touched the odd, pale bandage on her cheek. It felt slick and rough at the same time, somehow, and she had been surprised at the stinging, shrinking sensation when it had affixed itself to her skin. It seemed to work well though, the bleeding had stopped immediately.

The Age of Legends man raised a gloved fist to his mouth and coughed politely to presumably get her attention – as though it were likely to have drifted elsewhere! – then lowered his strange eyes rather demurely and spoke softly once more, his words melodious and oddly accented. It did not sound like any Old Tongue Ellyth had ever heard spoken, but clearly was. He seemed to be asking her about a calendar again. At least, she _thought_ that was his meaning. His voice was husky and had an odd, throaty quality to it. Oh well… time to mangle the Old Tongue some more. She hoped he would not keep _wincing_ while she spoke, this time.

"Ye ca… inde duente a'… a' maral?" She couldn't remember any of the right words, what she wouldn't give for Renn's interpreting skills! "Ye inde nosane… domorakoshi…"_ I'm not even sure if it's a calendar you're after, it could be a burning _colander_ for all I know! _Though that seemed unlikely. She _had_ to try to tell him about the Shadowspawn – if _this_ didn't work she was going to have to draw a bloody picture! "Ye misain sa… shadar cour?" He wasn't just wincing now, he was actually _flinching_ while she spoke! "Shaidar-drin… um… lyet?" He was shaking his head slowly, looking a little apologetic. "Ye… rhadiem… um… _oh, bloody ashes!_"

The Age of Legends man blinked his large, strangely coloured eyes slowly, then grinned alarmingly. His teeth were very white, and looked rather… _sharp_.

"_Bloody_," he announced, in the same melodious accents, pronouncing the words _very_ oddly, so that she could barely understand him, "_bloody ashes!_"

Ellyth stared at him. Her mouth dropped open. The man spoke further;

"_Blood_ and bloody ashes! Yea?" He seemed to be enjoying himself…

"You understand me?"

"Burn-me! Yea? Burn bleeding soul!" He was _definitely_ enjoying himself!

"You understand me!"

"I under… stand… thee." He blinked, then corrected himself. "Nay, _you_."

"Thank the Creator!"

"Yea, thank Him. Praise Creator who spins Wheel of Fate and shines His Light down on me." He frowned a little, seeming oddly hesitant, then enquired; "forgiveness for ask again, but… thou art… _Allservant?_"

He spoke with the same doubtful tones in which he had said the only two recognisable Old Tongue words that had flowed so fluidly from his lips, '_Aes_' and '_Sedai_.' His speech in her own language seemed stilted and oddly antique. Though he clearly spoke her tongue far better than she spoke _his!_

"You mean, an Aes Sedai?" Ellyth qualified.

"Thou… nay, _you_… _Aes Sedai?_" Still sounding somewhat doubtful…

"_Yes_, of the Blue Ajah!" At which, the man nodded, touching both gloved hands to that odd Shield-_ter'angreal_ and bowed low, leaning forward with precision before straightening, his booted feet together, his arms at his sides. "Who _are_ you?"

"Who art..?" He blinked again, confusedly. "Nay, _are_… I? Me?"

"Yes! _You!_"

"_Shieldman!_" He said the word with great pride, but also a sense of… _amusement_. He _was_ peculiar! "Verily! Shieldman serve… Servants. As Dedicated, loyal unto Servant of All. Service 'til death!"

"Dedicated? You mean… like an _Aiel_?"

"_Da'shain Aiel_. Yea. Also, as well, nay. Never Covenant for Shieldman! Way of _Thorn_, not Leaf!"

_What does he mean by that?_

The Age of Legends man – no, the _Shieldman's_ brow furrowed, his odd eyes squinting a little. "Forgiveness once more… I may ask of you question, Allservant?"

_I have more than a few questions of my own…_

"Of course you may." He was polite, at least… if incredibly confusing!

"Allservant of ajah that is… blue… pray tell, why speakest ye Low?"

"The… low?"

"These words we use, twixt us now, Allservant – Low Chant, it is!"

"We… we call it the Vulgar Speech. I cannot speak the Old Tongue…" Ellyth blushed. Why even tell him that? She had no-doubt made it painfully obvious that she could not!

"Ye olde… tongue… meanest ye... nay, _the_... the High? Excuse, but… why is it that you do not, Allservant?"

"What we are speaking… it is the language which _everyone_ uses now, yes? No-one converses in the Old Tongue anymore… at least, not widely."

"Now? Please… when is _now_, Allservant?"

Of course! Not a _calendar_, he had wanted to know the _date_… should she tell him? "I am uncertain of the exact day, but it is the month of Amadaine, or perhaps we are in Tammaz now…" But should she tell him the _next_ part? He was watching her closely. He had the right to know. "…in the nine hundred and ninety-eighth year of the New Era." The man blinked his strange eyes slowly. She could not tell if he was shocked, or angry, or sad, or… well, _anything_. He seemed inscrutable as a cat!

"This many year since War with Dark One?" the Shieldman asked, gravely.

"_The War of the Shadow?_"

Ellyth stared. For the first time, the realisation that she was talking with a _living being_ who came from the _Age of Legends_ fully struck her… he seemed to be taking it all very well. But it was hard to tell, he was so… _mercurial_, one moment seeming to evince a full gamut of emotions, the next making even an Aielman seem expressive, by comparison! Now he was nodding, enthusiastically.

"Yea, One Power War! _A'sag Aman._ Time of Dragon…" Abruptly, he became sombre again. "Allservant, near one-thousand year since, say you?"

"Considerably more, in fact…" This was no good, they would have time for history lessons later, if they were still alive – there were more _immediate_ concerns!

"Consider… ably? Allservant, forgiveness, but… how _many_ m-"

Abruptly, the Shieldman lifted his head, gazing upwards as though staring _through_ the ceiling. He made a jerking motion, like a sniff, and scowled darkly.

"_Shadarrr..._" His voice was a low growl. Though only one, brief word, he managed to fit a great deal of hatred into it.

* * *

><p>The Myrddraal paused at the top of the ramp. She was down there, the Aes Sedai. She must be. There was no other way out of this place. She was trapped. It would… play with her, before it gave her to the Kirikil woman, the Myrddraal had decided. The Draghkar lingered behind, back by the carved slab of stone. The Myrddraal looked on it with an eyeless gaze.<p>

"_Sing_," the Myrddraal commanded, voice rustling like dead leaves.

The Myrddraal paused when it reached the foot of the ramp, dark blade held loosely in its corpse-pale hand. From above, the Draghkar's crooning song drifted down, swelling and pitching, inescapably filling the underground chamber. The Myrddraal was, of course, immune to that hypnotic sound. The human that stood below clearly was not. The man stood squarely in front of a broken aperture in the smooth wall that bounded this underground chamber, face slack and expressionless, eyes half-closed, swaying gently. A pile of rubble spilled about his booted feet.

The human was not the Aes Sedai, clearly… so who was he, then? The Myrddraal moved closer, examining with senses other than sight. The man was draped in a loose garment made out of the colour-shifting stuff the Swordmen used for their cloaks, his hands tucked out of sight beneath… perhaps there had been more than one Swordman, as there sometimes was, with certain Firewomen? Though the Draghkar and ravens had not reported it...

The Friend of the Dark who stood high in their pathetic counsels had demanded the Aes Sedai be taken alive and brought to her… the Myrddraal was angered to have to obey the commands of a hag who channelled, however deep she had plunged her miserable soul into the Shadow… The Firewoman must be down here, somewhere. It would find her and have its fun, and if she was still sane afterwards, then she would no-doubt be taken somewhere to answer questions. As for this human, this Swordman, who seemed to have mislaid his sword… The Myrddraal drew back its blade.

At which, the human ceased his swaying, blinked his oddly coloured eyes, returning the Myrddraal's blind gaze without any sign of disquiet… and smiled warmly, as though meeting an old friend. He spoke softly, almost purring.

"_Shadowman_…"

The Myrddraal stabbed with serpentine speed, but somehow, the human was no longer there. The Myrddraal sensed a blur of movement to its right, whirled to face it, and a boot took it full in the face. It snarled, slashing viciously, but the human slipped beneath the dark blade and leapt, spinning, his other boot connecting with the side of the Myrddraal's head. A final, powerful kick knocked the sword from its hand, and the Myrddraal hurled itself onto the human – who set his feet and raised his hands to receive it (there was something strange, about those hands.) When the Myrddraal struck, the human seized it by the shoulders, falling back and helping it on its way with a booted foot. The Myrddraal sailed overhead and into the wall behind, hitting hard, breaking bones. It scrambled up, teeth bared – and the human rolled smoothly to his feet, turned and stood, looking at it calmly. He smiled again, though not warmly at all this time, and began to stalk toward the Myrddraal, moving with a lithe, animal grace. The Myrddraal crouched – its sword was behind the human – and watched the man approach, uncertainly. The human spoke again, this time not in its own language but in that of the Myrddraal – the Shadow Tongue. Harsh, ugly words, hissed tauntingly over the song of the Draghkar.

"_Slow, Shadow-filth… slow-slow-slow… so slow…_"

When the human lunged, a hand stretched out (there was something _very_ strange about those spread fingers) the Myrddraal was unable to even avoid the vicious blow that came to its chest, let alone retaliate. It had never seen anything move that fast, not even in the Blight. A violent, wrenching sensation immediately followed this impact. The Myrddraal staggered back a step, the heels of its boots hitting the wall, feeling suddenly weakened. The man was watching it, a small smile on his lips. As it slowly slid down the wall into a seated posture, the Myrddraal touched a wondering, pale finger to the gaping, ragged wound in the left side of its chest, its eyeless vision dimming, then returned its attention to the human, now crouching just opposite, watching it die, the smile slowly spreading, large eyes wide open and staring, drinking it all in.

The human (though the Myrddraal no longer thought that it _was_ human) seemed to be holding something, dark and dripping, in one of those strange hands. He held it up helpfully, so that the Myrddraal could get a good look before death came.

* * *

><p>After N'aethan had shown the Shadowman its heart and ensured that it was thoroughly dead (the particular thing he did to them usually took care of that faster than any other method, even beheading, but you never knew with a Myrddraal) he tore off a piece of its reassuringly mutable cloak and went to kill the Draghkar.<p>

N'aethan paced briskly up the ramp, carefully wiping his hand clean on the dark rag before discarding it and putting his gloves back on, loudly whistling a snatch of Veragosi's Fifth Shama Quintet as he did so, trying to drown-out the horrible noise the Draghkar was making. He could sense it up there, through his Shield, as well as _hear_ it… Light, they could probably hear it in _Larcheen!_ If the Midnight City was even still down there... probably gone now. One thousand years! Or was it more? And everyone speaking the Low – how Father would have laughed!

_Ah, there you are, you nasty noisy brute… _

The Draghkar was crouched atop Father's frieze, bat-wings spread, still crooning its vile song, a hypnotic dirge that redoubled and intensified at the sight of him. If he didn't dispose of it soon, the filthy thing would likely give him a head-ache…

"Your unpleasant song does not affect me," N'aethan explained impatiently in the High (using superior-to-inferior this time, since he _definitely_ outranked Draghkars) "it never has. Do you know any other ballads, Siren? I like not the sound of this…"

The Draghkar obviously did not speak the… what had the girl-_Sedai_ called it? The old tongue...? It snarled, baring its sharp teeth – then, claws ready to tear skin and rend flesh, it threw itself at the unarmed human with an ear-splitting screech.

N'aethan killed the Draghkar quickly, resisted the urge to go outside and stand in the pale sunlight, then trotted back down the ramp. It was quiet down here… dark also, most of the glowbulbs appeared to be broken. No matter. He could see fine.

The Shadowman sat against the wall where it had fallen, legs stretched out and head bowed forward over its chest. Its odd posture almost hid the gaping wound, which might be just as well. Even some of the Warmen had occasionally felt sick at the things he did to Shadow-wrought – much as they approved – and he did not think that girl-_Sedai_ had as strong a stomach as they!

The Myrddraal's black heart, N'aethan had left sitting in its left hand, carefully curling the dead fingers around it. It made it look a little as though the Shadowman had torn out its _own_ heart! He did not know exactly why he did this sometimes – was it supposed to be a joke? no, even _his_ sense of humour wasn't _that_ bad! – but in his experience, when some Shadowmen found another Shadowman with its heart ripped out of its chest and left in its hand… well, it gave them pause. Upstairs, N'aethan had distantly sensed more Myrddraal, further to the east… if they came _this_ way, it might be good to… give them pause.

So, there was the Shadowman, rendered harmless in the best way possible. It had looked pleasingly surprised at the end, though not scared – _nothing_ scared them, and the Creator-knew he had _tried_, just to see if it could be done. Myrddraal simply had no fear. Well, that was not _strictly_ true… there was _one_ thing that had once terrified Shadowmen, but Middle Brother was long dead now, unfortunately.

N'aethan missed Middle Brother, he had looked after him when he first went north to the final, horrific days of the War… had shown him around the camps, introducing him to people, always telling those blackly comic jokes he thought-up, breathing the sarcastic words that made you want to laugh and be shocked at the same time in that strange, whispery voice of his. He had had a fine - if rather dark - sense of humour, and lots of friends in the Lifeband, which he led… a pity _Shen an Sora_ all died at _Shayol Ghul_, or they could have been _his_ friends too... he could have even joined the famous Band and had songs written about _him!_ Well, maybe not a whole song… but a verse, at least.

N'aethan stopped and stood for a moment, head bowed, strange eyes closed.

_wherever you are now, Middle Brother, I hope that the Hand is sheltering you… and you also, Elder Brother, though we never met… and Father as well, I suppose... but not _you_, Grandfather, you can go and burn in the Black Pit, in the unlikely event that you aren't already there!_

N'aethan raised his head, opened his eyes, and grinned. It was an _unusual_ family he came from, and _no_ mistake! Oh well. Just him left, now.

The Myrddraal was not the only thing leaning against the wall. There was the shocklance also. It was the same one that had been left in this bare chamber when he had come down to speak with Father for the last time. A short while ago. More than a thousand years ago. He had wondered why it was there at the time…

N'aethan had noticed the shocklance earlier and retrieved it from the corner where it had rolled. He checked it, but there was no charge left. It looked as though the residual power had leached away over a _very_ long time, and what remained had been expended recently in a full burst, though it would have been extremely dangerous to discharge the thing under such circumstances. It did not matter – even had there been a full charge, he would have scorned using it. He did not like shocklances, never had, they were clumsy, destructive things. His way was better.

Though such dangerous weaponry should not be left lying around… they had best take it with them, it might prove useful for _something_, at least. There was a weapon clip on the left side of his belt, though it rarely held a weapon. N'aethan attached the shocklance so that it swung heavily against his hip as he walked. Just like a Warman's blade... He sighed. If only…

N'aethan had learnt the art of the sword up in the camps, studying under an old Warman blade-tutor who had served with Middle Brother, so knew a little of what to anticipate from a Lightborn. But though he had expected N'aethan to learn quickly, he had _still_ been shocked by the ease with which the Last Lightborn picked it all up. N'aethan achieved his Heron in less than three months, by which point he had been unable to find anyone in the entire main-camp who was still willing to spar with him! Warmen, and their Officers, all declined politely – even those who hadn't faced him with practice swords at some point had heard about what a waste of time it was trying to touch the Lightborn with a blade, and refused also. Even when he rather desperately offered to take on _eight_ opponents at a time! Still no!

Warmen were boring, their Officers little better, they _never_ wanted to play. It was not _his_ fault he was so fast, they should have blamed Father, if anyone… Still, he had his Heron, and was very proud of it too. But N'aethan was not a Warman, though he often went uniformed as one, and did not have the right to wear a blade at his side. This was one of his few regrets. Well, more than just a few, perhaps… at least he had his Shield, though. No Warman had ever been given anything _that_ good!

N'aethan wondered vaguely where girl-_Sedai_ would lead them, clearly they could not stay here, at the Black College… he had never much cared for the place, anyway. Most of the memories it held for him were bad ones. There were Beastmen about too, apparently, though he had never been able to sense them the way he could Shadowmen and other Shadow-wrought. They were beneath the notice of his instincts, he supposed. Though not the notice of his sense of smell, unfortunately. _Trollocs!_ His lip curled with disgust. Worse than dogs! Big, stupid, brutal things that made too much noise and betrayed their presence in more ways than he cared to number… avoiding them would not be difficult, killing them scarcely more so.

N'aethan frowned at the Myrddraal's dark _Thakan'dar_-forged blade, still lying where it had fallen. He did not like those things, the wounds they caused were always more painful and took longer to heal than the regular kind. Still frowning at it, he turned his head slightly and called, toward the ante-chamber;

"Safe to emerge from your place of concealment, Servant of the Hall."

N'aethan used inferior-to-superior inflection, since _that_ question had been settled by a snake biting its own tail! He still could not quite believe the girl wore the Ring – if she was indicative of these 'thousand-years-later' _Aes Sedai_, then things had become very strange indeed… she seemed little more than an Apprentice, and an extremely junior one at that! Kiam Sedai had been _very_ young for a War-Servant, especially for one who used a _sa'angreal_… and Kiam had been eighty years old! This girl _Aes Sedai_ looked barely a _quarter_ that age!

Kiam Sedai had been self-conscious about her youth and always represented to him that she had reached her century (the senior War-Sisters did not seem to consider anyone beneath that age worthy of their notice) suggesting it in that round-about way the Sisters used to avoid their Truth-Oath, but he had sneaked into the logistics-dome one night and accessed her records, finding out her birth-date…

It had then amused N'aethan for some years afterwards to leave flowers on Kiam's bed on each of her birth-anniversaries, carefully circumventing the wards (and later, traps) that the suspicious young _Aes Sedai_ left in her private dome, to catch the mystery person who habitually sneaked-in to deliver the unwanted felicitous blossoms! For some reason, Kiam _hated_ flowers, it was one of the few things about her that defied logic – and _that_ had been the whole point of the joke! Though as usual with his jokes, he was the only one who seemed to find it amusing. Kiam had not, but had never caught him at it either, though she had certainly suspected...

N'aethan supposed he would miss Kiam Sedai a little… though he doubted she had missed _him_ after he went into the Black College and never came out. But he would _not_ miss the excruciating games of _tcheran_ where the ease with which she saw through his every ruse and stratagem always made him feel like a witless child… he had the last laugh on her, though, she would have been _furious_ to discover she had been walking in circles all day! He wondered if she had found the note he left..?

He would miss Father too, of course… Uncle Gwili as well... but perhaps Someshta was still alive? If anyone was, it would be him, after all. He would find out later. But that was it. Everyone else he had ever cared about was already dead by the time he went into the Stasis Box… well, except for Ledrin, who he would probably miss slightly _more_ than Father… the old _Da'shain_ had probably not lived much longer in any case. It was sickening, the way the Dedicated were treated now. Or _then_…

N'aethan sighed. A thousand years. Hard to believe. Though girl-_Sedai_ had said something about it being _more_, had she not? Why was she not answering? Oh… he had forgotten, he had been speaking the High. The excitement of killing things of the Shadow sometimes left him feeling confused afterwards. He switched to the Low;

"Allservant! Canst come out now!"

N'aethan stalked over to the Myrddraal's sword and, grimacing with distaste at having to touch the vile thing – even with gloves on – picked it up and broke the dark blade neatly over his knee. As he dropped the shards to the floor, he said a silent prayer for whichever victim had been used to quench the thing at the Dread Forge.

N'aethan had never been there, or closer than one hundred miles to _Shayol Ghul_ – he might not be _Aes Sedai_ and just a lowly Shieldman, but he wasn't stupid! _Thakan'dar_ was where Middle Brother took _Shen an Sora_ to try and rescue his wife and some other poor people awaiting their turn to quench the foul blades. N'aethan had wanted to go too, but Middle Brother wouldn't let him (it was the only time he ever heard him shout) because he was too young. Middle Brother never came back. N'aethan didn't know what happened to him. No-one did. A wise soldier knew his limitations…

Still no sign of girl-_Sedai_… "Allservant?" What was wrong with her? Could she not hear-? Oh… of course! N'aethan slapped himself on the forehead. _Fool!_ Maybe his time in the Box had turned him forgetful? He trotted over to the antechamber, shaking his head.

* * *

><p>The wildcat Trolloc sniffed the air. For a moment, it had imagined it had smelled… no, there was nothing. It returned its attention to the ravine, down which its Myrddraal and the Draghkar had disappeared earlier. Where were they? They had been gone too long… the Fist was safe up here, now that the Swordman was dead, but… the Trolloc paused its slow thought-processes and sniffed some more. Again, it thought it caught a trace of something particularly troublesome. But dismissed it, when its animal senses hinted at what it might be. <em>Djevik K'Shar!<em> There could not _possibly_ be any of the hated Spear-Demons here! Why, they were more than one hundred marches from the Dying Ground! But there it was again, stronger – it could _smell _Spear-Demon! _Vlja daeg roghda! _

The wildcat Trolloc turned rapidly, opening its bestial maw to yowl a warning to the others. The arrow entered its gaping mouth smoothly, slamming into the back of its throat. As the Trolloc fell, more arrows followed, with swift deliberation.

The _Sovin Nai_ hit the Trollocs like a small whirlwind, a dusty vortex of black veiled faces and stabbing spears that carved a path deep into the Shadowspawn, leaving torn and gutted corpses in their wake. But there were many of the Shadow-twisted, and the Dance was not soon over…

Cohradin kicked the curved, scythe-like sword out of the snarling, wolf-muzzled Trolloc's hands and rammed his spear into its belly. He pulled, giving the spearhead a good twist on the way out, disembowelling the creature. He pivoted smoothly, shifting his grip on the haft and thrusting the spear into the chest of a Trolloc with large yellow tusks on either side of its snout – it dropped its heavy axe and clutched at the weapon, snapping the spear-shaft near the end as it twisted away, taking his spearhead with it. That had been his last spear! And the Dance not yet quite done, by the looks of it…

The others were giving a good account of themselves, it seemed the Maidens had used-up all of the arrows and had joined-in with their spears. They had been angry when Cohradin gave them the archer's duty, but as he had been wearing his serious face when he did so, they had kept their protests to themselves, while no-doubt using their fingers to say rude things about him… It had been necessary, but it was true that there was little honour in killing from a distance. But that applied less to a Maiden than a Knife Hand, so let _them_ fire the arrows of others as well as their own!

A goatish Trolloc leapt at him so Cohradin, who was still holding the broken-off spear-haft, caught its ugly, barbed blade on his buckler and punched the jagged length of wood through its eye. The Trolloc fell back, twitching, taking the haft with it. Now he did not even have _half_ a spear to dance with! And a huge, bear-faced Trolloc came stomping toward him, a massive, spike-encrusted mace raised overhead in its hairy paws. While Cohradin considered his best options – _borrow a spear from Chassin? he usually carries more than he needs_ – he leapt straight up and slammed his ox-hide buckler into the Trolloc's face as hard as he could, breaking several of its fangs.

The Trolloc bellowed, staggering back a few steps, weapon still raised. Cohradin took a quick look around – _no, Chassin was clearly out of spears himself, or why else would he have climbed up onto that Shadow-twisted's back and be using his daggers to cut its throat?_ – then back at the bear-muzzled monster, advancing on him again slowly, spitting out blood and teeth. Cohradin almost reached for the sheath in his belt, before recalling that it was empty.

Cohradin shrugged. Too bad a Trolloc was wearing his knife between its eyes, but it had been a fine throw all the same – _twenty paces, easily!_ – and had kept young Tevin from being waked from the Dream. The youth should guard his back better, Cohradin meant to have words with him on that subject. No spears! No knife! What did that leave? Cohradin glanced swiftly in the other direction. Gerom was clearly in the same fix, though since he was using his massive hands to strangle a struggling Trolloc, it did not seem to concern him. But then, they were _Sovin Nai_. It was well to be armed with the spear – for were they not _algai'd'siswai_ also? – but as long as they had hands and feet (as well as elbows and knees, foreheads and teeth) hardly _necessary_.

"Have I upset you, my friend?" Cohradin enquired of the bearish Trolloc as it loomed over him. It roared angrily, the mace sweeping down to crash into the rock where Cohradin would have still been standing, had he not neatly side-stepped an instant before. Tensing his fingers, Cohradin swarmed up the Trolloc, gaining handholds on its greasy coat and hairy face with his right hand, drawing his striking-hand back as far as his ear. He had not done this for a while, but it was one of the first things a _Sovin Nai_ was taught, and it was not likely that he would have forgotten!

The bear-faced Trolloc snarled when he planted a foot on its chest, straightening and letting go of the mace, clutching at him with hairy, thick-nailed hands. At which point, Cohradin energetically stabbed his fingers straight through its throat. The Trolloc fell back, clutching at the gaping wound, dark blood gushing from its ruined neck. Cohradin rolled to his feet and stood over the creature as the life faded from its bloodshot eyes. He raised his left hand, fingers rigidly extended, dark with sticky blood.

"_There_, twisted-one! _That_ is why they call us _Knife Hands!_"

Waving his striking-hand a little to loosen it up before making it rigid again, Cohradin looked around for his next Trolloc… but unfortunately, there were none left.

* * *

><p>Ellyth lay in the odd <em>cuendillar<em> box, swathed in her dead Warder's cloak, only her eyes showing. The Age of Legends man had certainly not wasted any time after saying 'Shadow' in the Old Tongue (she understood what _that_ word meant, at least) but had shot forward alarmingly and scooped her up into his arms! She would have remonstrated but by the time she had summoned the words, he was already lowering her carefully into this disturbingly coffin-like container! He was _very_ fast…

"_Stay here, Allservant! Safe! Heartstone, yea?"_

"_There are Myrddraal and Trollocs!"_

"_Yea, yea…" He sounded impatient._

"_It is not 'yea' it is _yes!_"_

_A ripping sound – he was tearing a length of silk from the hem of her dress! It was already badly torn, of course, but even so…_

"_What are you doing down there? Stop that!"_

"Yes_, Allservant. Sorry, Allservant. Here, use – there is Draghkar! It will sing!" _

_There was a tube of fancloth in the box which the Shieldman grabbed before turning away. Ellyth sat up, suddenly scared. Which made her realise that, after the initial wariness, from about the time the odd fellow bowed to her, the constant fear of the last days had eased. Or perhaps it was just seeing that symbol on his chest? When she had felt Atual die, she had known that she was utterly alone, here at the End of the World. Then, for a time, she had not been…it had felt almost like safety. Now, she was alone again… Where was he going? Too late, he was _gone_… _

"_Be careful!" Ellyth called, "Shadowspawn are extremely dangerous!" _

_The Shieldman reappeared briefly, glancing back at her from the broken archway. With _amusement! _Curse him, did he think that this was all some sort of a _game?

"_Yes Allservant… but Shieldman _more_ dangerous!"_

_And then, he was gone again. So, not really seeing what else she could do, Ellyth took the two neatly rolled plugs of silk he had pressed into her hand and stuffed them in her ears. She lay back down, covering herself as best she could with the fancloth, which swiftly shifted its colour to that of the pale heartstone._

Ellyth lay there awhile, her head aching dully, just on the verge of embracing the Source but without actually embracing it. After the strain she had put herself through recently – she had nearly _stilled_ herself! – doing so and attempting to channel would almost certainly burn her out. Literally, with any luck. She stood ready to fill the small chamber with the hottest flames she could summon, burning everything in it to ash. Including herself. Shrina had told her grim Battle Ajah horror-stories of what happened to Aes Sedai who were captured by the Myrddraal. Self-immolation would be a better way to die. _Anything_ would.

And then, nothing happened for a time. She glanced at the confines of the thick-walled box. It was strange… so _this_ was where the – _what_ had he called himself? – where the _Shieldman_ had slept, all those long years. It was very clean, considering that it had comprised a man's _bed_ for three-and-a-half millennia! What was going on out there? She couldn't hear anything. Well, _of course_ she couldn't bloody hear anything! Then, slowly so as not to alarm her, a black gloved hand appeared cautiously over the edge of the box, waved, and, forming itself into a fist, extended the thumb slowly. It was obviously some sort of sign, but what did it mean?

Ellyth sat up and the Shieldman took a respectful step back. He did not seem to have been injured… what had happened? His lips were moving and he was pointing to his ears, miming taking something out. Ellyth reached up and removed the rolled-up wads of silk. The Shieldman smiled, and nodded encouragingly.

"Is clear, Allservant. Safe to go, it is now."

The Shieldman tried to help her out of the box but Ellyth waved him away, scrambling down, further tearing her skirts in the process. He followed her out into the main chamber. There was a dead Myrddraal sitting slumped against the wall. Its dark blade, snapped in half, lay across from it. She noticed that the Shieldman now had the destructive tube-shaped device attached to his belt at one side, hanging a little like a sword.

Ellyth gazed at the Shieldman. He shifted, seeming to find her eyes on him uncomfortable, though _he_ was a fine one to talk! But he had saved her life from a Myrddraal that she would have been too drained to kill herself, without the effort taking her _own_ life, so she supposed that thanks were in order. _And_ introductions.

"Thank-you for killing the Fade."

"I thank-you also as well, for wakening me, Allservant." The Shieldman pointed at the Crystal, still embedded in the _ter'angreal_-box's side. "It was you?"

"It was. You need not say both 'also' and 'as well' but merely choose one or the other. I am Ellythia of House Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah. May I know your name, sir?"

The Shieldman blinked. Ellyth was not sure why, but she got the impression that he was running through a long list of names in order to _choose_ one…

_It would have been a simple question for most to answer, but N'aethan (who had thought of himself as this ever since the War-Sisters had given him the full version of that title) had many names. Of course, Father had always called him 'my Son' except when he was exasperated with him, and then it had been 'Tro!' – his original designation. Kiam Sedai had always called him 'Lightborn' to his face, whereas to the other Sisters he was 'the Lightborn' behind his back, or perhaps 'Last Lightborn' though he did not relish the reminder that his Brothers were dead. Then, there was the name his friend Someshta had given him, a _very_ long Tree-name that he had never been able to properly pronounce. It translated loosely as 'Black Thorn' apparently… and they said the Nym had no sense of humour! Come to think of it, one of Father's Gardeners had once told him that _his_ people had a name for the Last Lightborn too, but even after the grinning Ogier had carefully repeated it to him three times, he _still_ had not been able to say it back. The speech of the Treebrothers was less communication, more discombobulation! Oh, and if that was not enough, the Da'shain had altered and abbreviated his title to 'Vron'Cor' after that business with the Aiel children. He supposed there was also that stupid name the Warmen always called him, he knew they were just trying to be respectful but it always made him recall something he did not like to think about. And then… then there was the rude term which had been accorded him by the Shadow, far from complimentary, though he took pride in it, since it indicated that he was feared by his enemy. Well, disliked at least. But anything to do with the Shadow still came at the end of the list, naturally. _

_Of course, the word 'Shadow' featured in his favourite name, but then again, it did in Latra Sedai's least-favourite also. (She had told him once that she hated being called 'Cutter-of-the-Shadow' by the Warmen who had given her that name.)_

"Allservant, my title is _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_." The Shieldman said these last words fluidly and fast, with great pride. Ellyth blinked.

"But long it takes, to say! So I am named 'N'aethan' in part of this."

"Naythan?"

"_Not_ Naythan, Allservant. _N'aethan_."

Ellyth considered. There was something subtly different about the way _he_ said it, but then, there would be… 'Naythan' was a rather old-fashioned name, one did not hear it very often… it had something to do with shields, she thought… but this man was from the Age of Legends, after all, so was _entitled_ to be old-fashioned!

"I cannot pronounce that quite the way you do. Would it be acceptable for me to refer to you as 'Naythan?' " The Shieldman's eyes widened – in addition to the strange hue of his iris, there was something about the pupil that was rather odd also, but she did not wish to stare too obviously.

"Accept… able..? You are _Allservant_, Allservant! You may do as you wish!"

"I may? Well, that would certainly make for a fine change. Hmm… you _will_ need a suffix, since I do not address strangers by their familial name… when I first enquired as to your identity, you said that you were a… 'Shieldman.' " The Shieldman nodded proudly. But there it was again – that hint of amusement! "Would it be acceptable to you to be called 'Naythan Shieldman?' "

"As spoke, Allservant, not question of _acceptable_. You are Allservant – if say you my name is 'Naythan Shieldman' then name _is _Naythan Shieldman. That is all."

Was he being _ironic?_ Ellyth narrowed her eyes a little. She did not care for irony… unless it emerged from _her_ lips! She was starting to think that this Shieldman might be one of those maddening people who always seemed to be laughing at some inner joke, who found certain odd things amusing, but could never quite say _why!_

_N'aethan flinched as girl-Sedai's eyes narrowed a bit. Perhaps she thought that he was trying to be ironic? He was not! He was being obedient! That was what she wanted, was it not? His obedience! She had said so, had she not? You could not win, with females – whatever you did or said, it was always wrong! And what in the Black Pit did 'acceptable' mean anyway? It was not one of the words Father taught..._

"Though fine name it is, I will use with pride," added the Shieldman, hastily.

_N'aethan was fairly certain that the two words practically meant the same thing… did girl-Sedai realise that? Probably best not to point it out, she might see it as insubordination and take his Shield away from him! It had happened before. Latra Sedai had always made the offending Sister give it back later, and sometimes even apologise to him, which had been embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as to the Sister, though! Being made to apologise to the Lightborn, in front of all the other Sisters! Made to by Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai... Shadar Nor herself. The War-Sisters were funny! Pecking away at each other like disgruntled hens… but Latra Sedai had always been the biggest chicken, with the sharpest beak! And he? Her little chick!_

"Very-well, Master Shieldman, let us depart this place…"

_Following-on meekly after girl-Sedai, N'aethan thought that perhaps now might not be a good time to ask her what '_acceptable_' meant, though he had repeated the word back to her as though he knew, which was perhaps a little dishonest of him. He could make an educated guess, certainly, but some of these longer words that she used were a bit beyond his rudimentary vocabulary, since he had only ever soaked-up enough of this vulgar speech to make Father happy… the Low Chant certainly seemed to have changed in however long it had been, it seemed to have become more complicated, to have evolved…he suspected that it might now contain many more words than it had, and some of them might even be quite long words..? Perhaps girl-Sedai would teach them to him, if she had time? _

_N'aethan liked languages. He read and spoke five fluently, and was at least conversant with another seven. Four of those first five languages had already been dead when he learnt them. Long dead. Father spoke them, so he had learnt them too. Apart from the fact that he enjoyed it, it had also been useful for them to be able to talk to each other in a tongue that others did not understand, sometimes. And now, the High was a dead language also – five out of five! He doubted anyone spoke any of the more modern languages he was familiar with either, anymore – except for one of those seven, clearly – the Low. Everyone spoke it now, girl-Sedai had said. When had that happened?_

_N'aethan also spoke the Dark Tongue of the Shadow, the only language he had not enjoyed learning. It was less speech, he considered, more a sort of verbal vileness. But it was useful to know what the Shadow-wrought were saying to each other sometimes – and enjoyable, also, to be able to talk to them before you killed them, tell them what you were going to do to them before you did it. N'aethan did not have a particularly sadistic temperament (though he did have a wild streak and occasionally felt an almost overpowering urge to chase things) but he had seen the terror of the Shadow too often to not relish terrorising its Spawn, in-turn. He considered it… appropriate, to so do. Another part of Father's Design, he supposed._

Ellyth glanced down at the Myrddraal as they walked past. She wondered how the Shieldman had killed it without a weapon, though he had the strange, dangerous tube-thing hanging from his belt, so perhaps he had used that… but why was there a gaping hole in the Fade's chest? And what was that in its hand? That was _disgusting_, had he done what she _thought _he had..? Suddenly, Ellyth very _badly _wanted to depart this forbidding place – she reached the ramp – to get out of here so that she could find Atual and give him a decent burial- and a loud moan escaped from wherever she had been keeping it imprisoned. Ellyth fell to her knees, doubled-over and, head bowed, began to release a succession of deep, wracking sobs.

_N'aethan watched with surprise as girl-Sedai, previously so cool and calm, suddenly broke down in tears, right in front of him! She had been crying earlier, and he knew the signs of grief when he saw them. He had seen them a lot. Had she lost someone? Presumably. This was going to make him start thinking about Latra Sedai, and then _he_ might start crying too! He wondered what she would make of that? Her big, strong Shieldman, who was going to tear to shreds any Shadow-wrought that looked at her sideways, sitting down beside her and bawling like a baby! _

_N'aethan reached into the sub-pack at the back of his belt and drew out a white square. He hoped girl-Sedai would not want to be physically comforted, since close-contact with strangers always made him nervous… not as nervous as it would have made _them_ when they found out who _he_ was, though! Well… _what_ he was. But he also vaguely hoped that she _would_ want to be comforted… it was all rather contradictory. Perhaps he should at least put his arm around her? Though it might be seen as an over-familiarity… he did not wish to appear cold, though. He thought of himself as quite a warm person (in as much as he thought of himself as a person at all) and hoped that others did too. _

Ellyth accepted the square of pale, shiny cloth from the gloved hand – he seemed to be making a habit of passing her useful things from those strange pouches in his belt – opened it up, wiped away the tears, frowning at the dark smudges (her face must be _filthy!_) and blew her nose delicately before pushing the wadded kerchief into her sleeve. She rose, glanced up at the Shieldman with gratitude. He was not overly tall, but taller than she. He had moved closer, his arms held out from his sides a little, but clearly was not sure whether to hug her or not! Men were so… _useless_, when it came to these things, if Shrina or Renn had been here, there would be none of this hesitation, she would be currently resting her head on the rather wet shoulder of a friend, whilst sympathetic hands held her tight and smoothed her hair... no matter.

"Forgive me," Ellyth sighed, "I have recently lost my Warder. It causes pronounced physical effects for a time after, due to the severing of the bond that existed between us." Curse the bond, that had _nothing_ to do with it…

The Shieldman just nodded, clearly relieved that she had stopped crying! The feelings of loss, pain and guilt were still there, raging within. Ellyth took a deep, calming breath, and firmly pushed the sensations to the back of her mind. There would be time for that later, if she yet survived, and if she did not… just as well.

"Attend me, Master Shieldman. We should leave before more Shadowspawn arrive to trap us here."

"Honour to obey, Allservant."

The Shieldman bowed to her in that odd way again, crossing his gloved hands and touching them to his chest over where that strange Shield-_ter'angreal_ was affixed. She assumed that it was, anyway, it was currently hidden beneath a layer of fancloth. The Warder's cloaks were always of the same rigid cut and design that had changed little since the founding of the White Tower. This garment was decidedly different, a long diamond of fancloth with a hole for his head in the middle – he currently wore it draped over his shoulders like a tabard, the pointed ends tapering down to his knees in front and back. She had to admit that it looked practical. And she was wearing fancloth herself, after all… Ellyth rearranged her dead Warder's cloak a little, it was not a woman's cloak and was far too big for her, but it was comforting to wear it.

"I first will go, Allservant."

"You will go _first_."

"Yes, Allservant. I… will… go… _first_."

There was a fluidity to his movements as he ascended the ramp that hinted at some wild beast that lived for the hunt. Though when he was still, there was a sense of powerful immovability to him. Ellyth followed the Shieldman slowly, but her head began to spin even so, the dull throbbing in her temples increasing. Once again, the realisation that she had nearly burnt herself out, nearly _stilled_ herself, hit home. She should not so much as attempt to touch the Source for at least a day… unless she had to, of course. Feeling faint, she paused to lean against the curving balustrade a moment, her head hanging, breathing deep. It was close in here, rock-dust drifting about, she would feel better when they were outside in the open air.

The Shieldman noticed that she was not following and paused also, looking back at her. She waved him onwards. Instead, he took two of his quick, lithe steps down the ramp and unceremoniously scooped her up in his arms! _Again!_

"Put me down! I am not a _doll_, Master Shieldman!"

"Forgiveness, Allservant," the Shieldman muttered, pacing swiftly up the ramp and utterly ignoring her instruction. So much for obedience! He set her gently on her feet beside the big slab of marble, then slipped out into the air. "Please to wait, Allservant, will see if safe…" he said, as he did so. Ellyth glared after him. She was not a rolled-up carpet, to be toted about in the arms of some muscle-bound oaf!

Then, Ellyth noticed the Draghkar. Leathery wings providing its own shroud, it was staring sightlessly up at the ceiling… though lying on its front. It looked as though its head had been wrenched right the way around, so that it was facing backwards via the medium of a thoroughly well-broken neck! Ellyth blinked… and found herself swallowing the angry words that she had been about to deliver after… the Shieldman. He must have done it. He was _fast_… he must be very strong, also…

Ellyth was exhausted, in pain and drowning emotionally in a mixture of regret and misery. But she had not lost her wits. She was starting to think that this odd Age of Legends fellow might not be entirely… human.

"Allservant?"

"Aaa!" Ellyth leaned back against the frieze after her feet had resumed the ground. The Shieldman, having abruptly and soundlessly reappeared behind her, was staring curiously. "Do not _do_ that – you gave me a fright!"

"Forgiveness, Allservant."

"Yes, well… you move very quietly, I must say, Master Shieldman."

"So that Shadow does not hear me coming, Allservant!"

Ellyth frowned at the fellow. He was glancing past her at something, with those strange eyes… his pupils seemed more elongated than they should be, they were not perfectly round, more like ovals… she leant a little closer. The Shieldman noticed, glanced at her and grinned. His very white teeth were _very_ sharp! Ellyth leant back and the Shieldman's gaze returned to the marble slab behind her…

"There is way up, Allservant. Saw no thing movement," he muttered, absently.

"_Nothing moving_. Did you search the sky, in case of-"

"Draghkar and Shadow-eyes, _yes_, Allservant. _Nothing_ _moving_."

_N'aethan had a note of patience in his voice. Did he tell girl-Sedai how to spin her webs? It had been good to be out in the sun again, even though it had only been sixty bells since he last stood in the Light. A 'candle' it was called, in the Low, he believed. One candle… and more than a millennia… he had lost the impulse to ask exactly _how_ long. What difference would it make, if it was even as many as _two_ thousand years? He was here now, in this future world. He wondered what it would be like? So far he had only seen a ravine between two jagged crags, neither of which had been there that morning… it was not a promising beginning._

_Father's frieze had faded, he supposed that wind and rain had got into here from time to time and weathered the marble, blackening it… but his keen eyes could still discern the features on the head, the prissy mouth set in an irritating half-smile._

_(Hello, Grandfather! I see that your head is still stuck onto the body of a lion! You look very stupid, as usual! And I am also glad to know that you are dead again – this time, please try to _stay_ dead!)_

_Though the sun above shone weak and fitful through grey clouds, an overcast day never made any difference. Just a chime of standing beneath the Light was all N'aethan ever needed, to do his… other thing. The thing Father had never understood, about him or his Brothers. N'aethan had left the Collam Doon knowing little about this new world he found himself in. He had at least returned with the knowledge that, while the Forsaken seemed to be awake again, two of them were dead. And would stay that way, hopefully. Though that might be wishful thinking. The Dark One was not known as the 'Lord of the Grave' for nothing, Father had once told him, bitterly. But for the time being, it was the other eleven that he was worried about, Ishamael particularly. _

_Though the Betrayer of Hope had felt weak, as though he had taken a bad hurt not long since. But he would be back, he always was… N'aethan hoped that the Aes Sedai of this time would know how to deal with the Forsaken, would not be tricked by their illusions. It was worrying, though. Why were they abroad again? He was not sure, but he thought the seals had weakened. He would have to go right up to the Bore to know for certain, but if he did, he would surely not be coming back to tell of it! Middle Brother had been way tougher than him, and ten times the fighter – and _his _bones still lay somewhere on the slopes of Shayol Ghul… as did his Elder Brother's, presumably, though he had died there many years earlier, in the fifth year of the War, when he had taken it upon himself to go to that dread place alone… and kill the Dark One. Big Brother had certainly never believed in doing things by half-measures! The Shadow Mountain was clearly not a propitious place for a Lightborn._

_So, eleven Forsaken for the forces of Light to deal with. That was not good. But at least death had come (and come quite recently, by the feel of it) to Eval Ramman and Ishar Morrad Chuain, who the world __had come to know as Balthamel and Aginor. This pleased N'aethan greatly, and put him in a much better mood. _Particularly _the second name on this too-short list. A very long time ago, Father had stood 'prentice to Ishar Morrad, Aes Sedai, as he then was, before he earned his third name… before he turned to the Shadow. As Apprenticeships go, it had all ended rather badly…_

"Why do you stare at the carving of the lion and smile?"

"Oh, nay reason, Allservant."

"_No_, not 'nay.' Come along, Master Shieldman. We must away. Be on your guard, there may well be Trollocs in the vicinity."

"_No_, Allservant. I mean yes, Allservant. Coming, Allservant."

"_Must_ you keep calling me that? Aes Sedai will _do_, Master Shieldman."

"Yes, Aes Sedai. Coming Aes Sedai."

"Master Shieldman, perhaps you might restrict yourself to using my title only once every _other_ sentence! And stop dawdling!"

"Yes, Aes Sedai. Sorry about that, I am." Pause. "Aes Sedai."

"Oh, mother's milk in a bloody beaker!" Ellyth snarled, and stalked away.

_Yes, girl-Sedai! No, girl-Sedai! Three bags filled with wool, girl-Sedai! Though to be honest, N'aethan did not mind so much the imperiousness, the being ordered around and snapped-at – it was, after all, exactly what he was used to! It was nice to know that, while the Aes Sedai of now might seem like children in comparison to the ones he had served, if girl-Sedai was any indication, they at least still had every ounce of the arrogance he recalled so fondly… that expectation that each command be instantly obeyed, even that cool look and raised eyebrow thing she did, which reminded him a little of Kiam Sedai! Everything else might have changed, but it was reassuring, even comforting, to know that some things were still the same._

_Giving Aginor a last smile, N'aethan turned and followed girl-Sedai up the ravine, running a little to catch up, the shocklance bumping annoyingly against his hip. How he wished it were a sword! She seemed to be feeling better, to have got her breath back… this was good. But he would have to find a way to interpose himself between her and these Beastmen without arousing her anger, if he could. _

_N'aethan was not sure how many of them there might be, but he hoped it would not take too long to kill them all. __It might even be enjoyable, though Trollocs moved pitifully slow, since there was always that moment right at the end, when the last Beastman, the one he had deliberately avoided killing, stared around itself and realised that it was alone… he always smiled at it, waiting for it to do what they always did… his favourite kind of Beastman was _that_ one, turning and running away from him… requiring him to pursue. 'Where do you think you are going, sorda? Come back here!'_

_He would have to do it without taking off his gloves, of course, which would make things a bit more difficult. But he did not want girl-Sedai to know certain things about him, not yet at least. So she thought his _eyes_ were strange, did she? She had _no_ idea! _

_Resting his hidden hand on the cold, murderous length of the shocklance as though it were a sword hilt (it held no charge, but perhaps he could _hit__ the Beastmen with it? like Elder Brother, with his Howling-Axe!) N'aethan hurried in her footsteps,_ obediently following girl-Sedai toward probable danger. Though it should really have been the other way around. _He_ was the Shield, not her._

* * *

><p>"He was a brave man," stated Cohradin, looking down at the dead Warder.<p>

"He was," agreed Gerom. "The wetlanders should sing songs of him. What he did here, it is like what Tarwin the Bannerman did, in Aramaelle."

"If we meet the Gleeman again, perhaps _he_ would sing such a song," suggested Chassin. "I thought that we might see Roth Blucha in the wetlands, since this is where he said that he lived, but I did not realise how big these lands are, and how many people live here, swarming like many flies."

Flies were starting to swarm on the Gaidin, Cohradin noted. A small, pale garment lay on the ground nearby. He thought it might be the Aes Sedai's cloak… he picked it up and draped it respectfully over the Warder's face.

"Should we go back down there?" Tevin wondered. He loitered at the mouth of the ravine, looking down the slope, literally hopping from foot to foot with excitement. Earlier, he and Chassin had scouted down there far enough to see what looked like a cave with strangely shining white walls in the side of a hill, then returned with the news that the Aes Sedai's near-indiscernible tracks (indiscernible to any but Chassin, at least) led inside. And perhaps two other sets of tracks, also. "Should we not seek the Aes Sedai, Cohradin?"

Cohradin sighed. "She went into the special white cave for reasons of her own, to do Aes Sedai things," he explained, "she will not thank us for disturbing her."

"But an Eyeless may have gone in there also – it was not here for us to dance with," protested Tevin, "the Draghkar as well, since I do not see it flying up there!"

The older Knife Hands were watching him with confused disapproval.

"What is your _point_, young-one?" demanded Cohradin.

"That the Aes Sedai could be in danger – surely we should go and-"

This was as far as Tevin got, before the three older Knife Hands dissolved into laughter, slapping their thighs and leaning against each other.

"She is _Aes Sedai_, Tevin," spluttered Cohradin, "what is a Myrddraal or a Draghkar to _her?_ She will laugh at them!"

"She will burn them with her fires!" wheezed Chassin.

"She will make them take off their skins and dance for her!" snorted Gerom.

Tevin sighed. Perhaps he needed to get a new scar?

At which point, the Maidens returned from their own scouting.

"The other Fists of the Shadow hold back," reported Jahdi.

"It is as though they wait for something," speculated Manda.

"They wait fearfully for us to come and _dance_ with them!" was Cohradin's opinion of this cowardly tactic.

The Trolloc horns up in the peaks had gradually moved away and quieted. Bravado aside, the Neverborn and Shadow-twisted were probably just regrouping and reinforcing, before returning with greater numbers – that was ever their way. Literally, according to Gerom. Once again, Cohradin wondered about the strange stone thing that he had seen the Spawn of the Shadow trooping out of. Gerom had told him something of these 'waygates' of the Treebrothers, but he had understood little, beyond the fact that something lived inside these 'Ways' that was even more dangerous than _them_. He grinned at Jahdi and Manda.

"Maidens, Tevin says that the Aes Sedai may be in danger from the Eyeless, and perhaps a Draghkar…" Tevin flushed as Cohradin spoke. "What say you?"

The Maidens eyed Tevin with cold disgust, making the youth wonder uncertainly if he might have just vomited onto himself…

"But she is _Aes Sedai_," stressed Jahdi, as though Tevin did not realise this.

"If they anger her, she will boil their bones inside them!" added Manda.

Cohradin nodded firmly. "Excepting any of that, young Tevin, do you imagine that the Aes Sedai wishes to see us looking like _this?_"

Cohradin gestured down at himself, then at the other Knife Hands. They had already added a new shade to the brown and grey of their _cadin'sor_, for these wetlands were very green, but now their garb had acquired another hue – the dark, reddish-brown of dried Shadow-blood liberally streaked their coats and britches. It was all over their hands and faces also, particularly Cohradin, whose left hand was still dark to the wrist. And it _stank_. Dancing the spears with Trollocs could be a messy business, especially for a Knife Hand. The twisted-ones were big, and had a lot of blood in them which, when released by spear-thrusts or other means, tended to go everywhere.

The Maidens eyed the Knife Hands disparagingly. Though they were rather besmirched themselves, if not nearly so much. It had been a hard fight.

"Stupid _Sovin Nai_ think they have _hands_ in place of _spears_," Jahdi declared, "so they wash them in their enemy's blood!"

Manda dutifully sniggered, though it was not that good a joke. Cohradin wiggled his gore-stained fingers, in imitation of a Maiden's flickering signs.

"If foolish _Far Dareis Mai_ had _spears_ in place of _hands_," Cohradin retorted, "then they would, in all probability, have a lot less to _say_ to each other!"

The Knife Hands particularly enjoyed this, guffawing and indulging in further thigh-slapping, and even Manda briefly rattled her spear against her buckler in approbation, though Jahdi crossed her arms and scowled.

"We passed a thing on the way to here, it has given me an idea…" Cohradin glanced down at the shrouded shape of Atual Aendwyn of the Far Madding Clan, and nodded thoughtfully. "But first… _algai'd'siswai_ of Wet Sands! Collect ten rocks each! There is something that we will do."

* * *

><p>"Tell me, Master Shieldman, how is it that you came to speak the… the low?"<p>

"'Twas Father, Aes Sedai. Taught to me the Low Chant, didst he. To my Brothers, also..."

"Why-ever did he teach you all the Vulgar speech?"

"So that we couldst enjoy… songs."

"There is no need to end so many of your words with a '_st_' sound, Master Shieldman, you will find that this is a defunct practice, yes?" He just blinked at her. Ellyth sighed. "Songs?" she prompted. The Shieldman grinned his disconcerting grin.

"Yes, Aes Sedai… _vulgar songs!_"

As he slipped swiftly past, the Shieldman made a strange, mewling sound in the back of his throat, whilst continuing to grin at her – it took Ellyth a moment to realise that he was laughing! _And_ had taken the opportunity to push in front of her again, just like the Gaidin always did… did he think that he was her _Warder?_ He was not. She had no Warder now, her Warder was _dead_ and it was _her_ fault – so who did he think he was? More to the point, who did _she_ think he was? She had absolutely no idea, the fellow was a walking enigma – and the enigma was walking away from her right now, still making the odd noise and shaking his head a little…

Ellyth followed the Shieldman up the ravine, scowling. _Impossible man!_ Though it must be hard for him – what would it be like for _her_, if she climbed into a _ter'angreal_ box and woke after more than three millennia had passed, woke to a world that she did not know? Where all she had known was dust? If Shrina and Renn, Lord Guye and Thaeus and everyone else she loved had… Ellyth winced. Someone she had loved had died recently, after all… but no, it could not be easy for him, to leave people he cared for behind, in the full knowledge that he would never see them again. _Poor man_…_ assuming that he even _was_ a man…_

"Did you have any family left in the time that you departed, Master Shieldman? You mentioned a father, and brothers?"

"Oh no, Aes Sedai. Brothers both lost in War."

"I am sorry to hear that…"

"Thank-you Aes Sedai. Was sorry to hear also or as well… misfortunate ides. But proud of Brothers, Aes Sedai. Heroes, were they… Heroes of the Light."

_What in the Wheel are 'ides?' If only Renn were here!_

Ellyth frowned slightly. Brothers, but he did not mention his father. "So your father had passed away before you got into the… the _ter'angreal _box?" Ellyth was still not sure what that thing had been. It had felt like an enormously powerful, ancient _ter'angreal_ right up until the point it opened. Then it had felt like… nothing. A _ter'angreal_ that somehow ceased to be a _ter'angreal?_ It did not make sense. She had tried asking the Shieldman about it but he had just shrugged and said 'can use only once, Aes Sedai.' He _kept _calling her that! Clearly the Sisters of his times had been somewhat rigid when it came to formality… though with the Shieldman, they might well have _needed_ to be!

The Shieldman did not seem to have heard, he was just pacing ahead of her, doing what he had been doing the whole way, his head constantly moving, his strange eyes scanning the land around them and the sky above, as they travelled up the ravine. In addition to the fancloth tabard, he had pulled a loose mantle of the same fabric from one of his pouches and now wore it draped over his shoulders, a hood raised to cover his head. A fancloth veil seemed to hang from it, in addition.

"I _asked_ if your father had passed before you went to sleep, Master Shieldman," Ellyth reiterated. Was he hiding something?

The Shieldman glanced at her, his fancloth-framed face disconcertingly disembodied. "_Father?_" Something about the way he said the word gave it a different meaning. He shrugged. "We said farewells. Was old." She sensed that he was avoiding her question. "Was _very_ old. Near eight-hundred year…"

_Eight hundred?_

"_Years_, Master Shieldman. That is… very old, certainly. Your father was Aes Sedai?" At that age, Ellyth certainly _hoped_ he was! Though more than twice the age of any Aes Sedai _she_ had ever heard of! Ellyth moved alongside him, studying his face closely.

"Yes indeed." The Shieldman sounded proud. "Father _very_ powerful Aes Sedai. Wise. Respected. Earned third name, too! 'Til Big Hall _took_ from him…" He scowled very briefly, before his features returned to the placidly good-humoured mask she was becoming accustomed to. Had his strange pupils just equally briefly narrowed to slits? She was not sure. She hoped that they had not… what _was_ he? A man or a weapon? It did not make sense…

"Third name…" Ellyth repeated absently, still wondering about the eyes.

"Yes, Aes Sedai. Name of Honour, not given to all. _Three_ names had Father… before..." He sighed, then muttered something under his breath in the Old Tongue that sounded like '_bajad drovja!_' An expletive, doubtless.

"Goodness. Three names. Like Lews Therin Telamon."

"The Dragon, yes. Was good man, Lews Therin Telamon. Nice to me…"

Ellyth stared. "Nice to..? You _knew_ him? _You met the Dragon?_"

"Only once, Aes Sedai, when was just little small ki- boy, mean I. We played game!" The Shieldman chuckled, shaking his head in fond reminiscence. "Game where you throw the count-cubes… the Dragon won – _Ta'veren!_"

Ellyth continued to stare at him. She was speaking to someone… who had _spoken_ with the Kinslayer himself! It defied belief… Renn would be _so_ envious!

For some reason it did not occur to Ellyth to doubt what he had said. It was strange, but while much else about the Shieldman seemed uncertain, she somehow sensed that he was very _honest_, was long-accustomed to telling the truth, as though bound to the First Oath… which meant that he might not be above attempting to skirt around it a little, or omit certain things, as Sisters often did. She wondered again about his father… a male Aes Sedai… the 'madman' who brought the Crystal to the _stedding?_ She thought of the skull they had found buried there… perhaps it would be best to keep that to herself for the time being. If he could omit things, so could she.

"Wait, Aes Sedai…"

The Shieldman had gone into a sudden crouch, was holding a gloved hand out towards her, fingers spread. Ellyth crouched too, as much as her torn silk gown would allow, and tried to look over his shoulder. She thought she could smell something bad wafting down from the top of the ravine, just ahead.

"Many dead Beastmen, Aes Sedai…" Was he sniffing? Yes, he was _sniffing_ the air, like a dog! He lowered his voice. "We go careful."

The Shieldman began to move forward but Ellyth grabbed the back of his fancloth tabard or whatever it was – he had told her it was called a '_po'ncho_…' She yanked hard, bringing him up short. He glanced back at her curiously.

"Wait," Ellyth hissed, "there were at least a dozen Trolloc horns being sounded up in the peaks earlier…" Hard to believe that had only been at dawn, while now the sun would soon be overhead. "…that means at least that many Fists led by three Myrddraal each, with Draghkar scouts also, yes? It is too dangerous to go out into the valley until nightfall."

The Shieldman was shaking his head with slow persistence. He pointed east.

"Shadow-wrought all over there, Aes Sedai. More than two league distant. Myrddraal…" he blinked a couple of times. "…and Draghkar too, now. Will tell you if come more closer."

Ellyth stared at him. "More _close_. Or _closer_, without the _more_. How do you _know_ this?" _How did you know earlier?_

Of course, Aes Sedai could sense Shadowspawn when nearby, as could their Warders, usually when so close as to merely give the options of either fight or flight, depending on their numbers – but not when nearly _ten miles_ distant…

The Shieldman shrugged, as though it were obvious. "How, Aes Sedai? _Ter'angreal_. You would like to see?" he slipped a gloved hand beneath his fancloth tabard, gripping the chevron-plaque he wore on his chest – he swivelled it slightly, there was a muted clicking sound, and his hand reappeared holding the Shield. He held it out to her.

Ellyth blinked. "Are you sure?"

"Take, take…"

The Shield-_ter'angreal_ was lighter than it looked. She had no idea what kind of metal it was made out of – it felt strange in her hands, smooth as silk. Also, she could sense that the Shieldman might still have a smaller, weaker _ter'angreal_ about his person, perhaps in one of those strange pouches on his belt… or perhaps two, it was uncertain… Ellyth shook her head, and looked down at the _ter'angreal_, held in her cupped palms, much as she had once held the Crystal that had brought her to this place. The familiar itching sensation was stronger than ever and, even more powerfully, that _other_ sensation of the sheer _newness_ of it…

"How old is this _ter'angreal_, Master Shieldman?"

"Not very, Aes Sedai. Was made for me… near fifty years back." He shrugged, clearly not troubling to mention that it had been a much longer time ago than that, subjectively.

"It was _made_ for you?" _Fifty? He does not look old enough… how old _is_ he? _A worrying thought occurred to Ellyth. There was a good reason why someone might not look their age… his father had been Aes Sedai, after all… what if..?

"_Yes_, Aes Sedai." He sounded proud. "Made by War-Sisters. Reward."

"What was the reward for?"

"Saved life, Aes Sedai. Life of _Shadar Nor…_ Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai…" He sighed, sadly, at mention of that name, but his unusual eyes had a far-away look in them, and he was smiling slightly, as though at some pleasant memory.

"_Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer!"_

_That morning, Tro had finally been given permission to leave the infirmary-dome, and though his legs were unsteady and he had to lean heavily on the crutches, it felt good to be out beneath the sunlight again. He had not been expecting the large formation of chanting Warmen, however…_

"_Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer!"_

_Tro ducked his head shyly and raised a white-gloved hand in cautious acknowledgement. At this, the ranks of stony-faced Warmen ceased their chant long enough to cheer savagely, before resuming it. They each had one hand resting on the hilts of the Power-wrought blades at their belts, the other formed into a fist and punching the air in time with the chanted words. _

"_Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer!"_

_It was by far the most expressive thing that Tro had ever seen the Warmen doing. And they were doing it for him! That wasn't bad! He just wished that they were doing it a bit more _quietly_, though… he was on a lot of medication at the moment and his ears were feeling rather sensitive... suddenly, Tro scowled._

_Vora Aes Sedai was gliding towards him, at the head of a mob of the other chickens (as well as their chicks.) You always had to call her 'Vora Aes Sedai' because she was so senior, and insisted upon it. Latra Sedai was way more important that Vora Aes Sedai, but had told him on the day they met to just append 'Sedai' to her name and leave it at that. _

_The War-Sisters, attended by their Apprentices, swiftly surrounded him. Tro eyed them carefully. They always made him feel a bit nervous. Some of them, like Vora Aes Sedai, had stood in the Big Hall, stood for Father's execution… and his own destruction. _

_(Well, bad luck War-Sisters… because the Dragon said no! Father and Tro – two! War-Sitters – zero! We win! We're still here! We're not dead! Nya-nya!) _

_Tro felt that he really had to stop doing that, talking to people in a hostile way in his head, it was not as though they could actually _hear_ him. It was just as well they could not! But it was better than actually _saying_ it… it was more diplomatic, this way. Besides, if he did not let off steam in one direction, it was only going to come out in another and then… someone might get scalded._

"_Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer!"_

_Vora Aes Sedai, cast her cool gaze over him. Silver-haired and formidable, clad in a shimmering streith-gown, wearing, in addition to her golden paralis-net, all of her finest ter'angreal jewellery by the looks of it… that fluted sa'angreal stuck through her belt… there were few Sisters who dressed in that fashion anymore, only the very old ones… Tro had heard that the Senior Sitter for the War Ajah was nearly as old as Father! There were few Aes Sedai left of that age. This must be why the other War-Sisters deferred to her so much… that and her strength in the Power, combined with a rather forceful personality! _

"_Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer!"_

"_Are you well, Tro?" enquired Vora Aes Sedai. Tro could not help noticing that Vora Aes Sedai had used his _name_, which she had certainly never done before, any more than she had ever deigned to address him, usually referring to him as 'the Lightborn' within his hearing, as though he were not there. If she did not use one of the more objectionable terms that existed for him. There were several to choose from._

_(Am I well, Vora Sedai? No, I am _not_ well – I have recently been used as a melee-dummy by an angry Gholam! _You_ try it, Vora Sedai, you try fighting a Gholam with nothing but a little silver stabby thing that does not work very well – thank-you for that by the way, Father, in future stick to making Lightborn like me which you are very good at and leave armaments to the Ordinance Ajah! – yes, _you_ fight with a Gholam until you are nearly dead also Vora Sedai and _then_ go without Healing because it doesn't work on you and when they finally let _you_ out of the infirmary-dome that smells like death Vora Sedai I will come and ask you if _you_ are well in front of a crowd of chanting Warmen who are making _your_ head hurt!)_

"_Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer!"_

"_I am well, Vora Aes Sedai," Tro responded, diplomatically, having to raise his voice somewhat. Though he did feel a bit better than he had – he could not have felt any worse without being dead – but still wished that all of these people had not been out here waiting for him. He also wished that Latra Sedai, the only one out of the whole lot of them that he actually liked, had been here to see him, but she had apologised (Shadar Nor, apologising to Tro!) to him last night when she brought him the grapes and the book, as she had been called away down south to the Big Hall and wouldn't be back for days. Those stupid Warmen had better do a good job of looking after Latra Sedai while he could not, the Shadow was always trying to kill her… though each time they did, Tro made a careful point of killing the killers first – Grey Men, Myrddraal, Draghkar, even Dreadlords… he had wiped the floor with them all!_

_Which was why the Renegades had sent the Gholam in the end, even though it was their last one. At least he _hoped_ it was, fighting a Gholam was ideally a once-only experience as far as Tro was concerned, having now done so. They sent the Gholam to get around Shadar Nor's notorious Lightborn bodyguard, who slept curled at the foot of her bed every night – well, they had taken what was left of the Gholam away in a _bucket_ in the end, so he hoped Ishamael was upset about _that!

_Vora Aes Sedai gazed at Tro for a long moment, her dark, mesmeric eyes piercing him to the core. Tro fidgeted restlessly. His head was spinning and he wanted to sit down, but not back in the infirmary-dome – he was not going in there ever again. He would die first, quite happily. Finally, Vora Aes Sedai spoke. She was doing something with the Power so that her voice cut through all of the-_

"_Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer!"_

_-all of the background noise, her words resonating around him, as though she were a Diva and he a tuning-fork! He didn't think anyone else heard…_

"_You know, it has been more than four hundred years since I was _wrong_ about something," Vora Aes Sedai's voice echoed, "but in light of your most recent efforts, I cannot help but think that I was wrong about _you_... Tro." _

_(…well … that was surprising … I was not expecting that … Vora Sedai used my name again …not that I really _like_ my name, not since I found out what it means … she still used it though … is something wrong with her? … perhaps the Taint has begun to affect women too? … I certainly hope not … like Father always says, that would be truly frightening!) _

_Vora Aes Sedai took something out of the pocket of her robe while the other War Ajah Sisters watched, approvingly. Even Vora's young Apprentice, Kiam, who seemed to view Tro as some kind of lesser spawn of the Dark One, seemed to approve. She was not exactly smiling, like some of the others were, but at least she was not scowling for a change. _

"_Here, Tro," said Vora Aes Sedai in her usual voice, "we made this for you."_

"_Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer!"_

_(shut-up, Warmen! I know you're only trying to be respectful… but I just came out of the infirmary-dome covered in bandages! leave me alone!)_

_Tro eyed the stupid honour plaque that Vora Aes Sedai had handed him. Another one! And not even gold or silver by the looks of it… How many had they given him now? Six? Seven? Then, Tro's eyes slowly widened. This one wasn't like the others… wait a moment, Vora Aes Sedai said they _made_ it, so it must be a ter'angreal… he wondered what it did…_

_In his hands, Tro held a shield-shaped badge, depicting a sixteen-pointed silver star, with the symbol of the Servants set in the middle. He ran his white gloved fingers over its surface, his eyes wide. Father had never given him anything _this_ good! Just that thing he kept in the back of his belt that was supposed to kill Gholams… when all it really seemed to do was make them more angry with you! Though to be fair, it had worked on the Gholam eventually, it had just taken him a long time to kill it… all a matter of attrition… and meanwhile, it had been busily killing _him_… strange, how you could wait all your life to meet the monster you had been made to destroy, bred to protect against… and in finally doing so, truly know what fear meant for the first time. In a way, he had felt an odd sense of kinship with the Gholam… it had been a little like facing a dark reflection of himself… and all the more horrifying for it._

"_This is the Honour Plaque of He Who Shields from the Night Shadows… it is yours now, as is that title, if you wish it." Vora Aes Sedai nodded, firmly._

_Tro did not trust himself to speak. So, he attached the Shield to the front of his hospital-smock instead. More cheering amidst the chanting, even some Da'shain from the infirmary-dome had come out to observe the ceremony and were clapping politely, though usually they avoided the Warmen. _

"_Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer! Gholam-Killer!"_

"_Wear it with pride, and use that name with honour…" Vora Aes Sedai's thin lips quirked in what might have been a smile – but Vora Aes Sedai _never_ smiled! "Though it would seem that the Warmen have already given you _another_ name to add to the others…" – yes, Vora Aes Sedai was _definitely_ smiling! – "…Gholam-Killer."_

At the head of the ravine, where it opened out into the broad, low valley, waited over a hundred dead Trollocs. And one live Raven. It watched them from the branch of a low, twisted tree, ready to launch itself into the sky at a moment's notice. The Shieldman did not give it that long. With alarming speed, he threw himself toward a chunk of jagged flint that lay before him, seizing, rolling and coming up on one knee, his arm flung out. The flint whistled through the air and struck the raven in the chest with a crunching sound – it fell from its perch, dead before it hit the ground. He rose to his feet, dusting himself off.

"_Seia Shadar_," the Shieldman muttered, disapprovingly.

Ellyth gazed at the piled Trolloc corpses. She thought that Atual must have killed some of them – the more the better – but surely he could not have accomplished all of this on his own? "I am uncertain about our next course…" She spoke aloud without thinking, but the Shieldman seemed to take it as a request for suggestions.

"Could find those who killed Beastmen, Aes Sedai?"

"How?"

"Six, there were. Aes Sedai. They went that away."

The Shieldman pointed north. Ellyth glanced in that direction, then back at him. The ground was hard, cracked rock – there could not _possibly_ be any tracks!

"How do you know?"

"I see, Aes Sedai."

_N'aethan didn't mention it to girl-Sedai (though for some reason he was starting to feel guilty for thinking of her as that, maybe he should stop doing it?) but he was using his eyes to look at the ground in that special way he had taught himself. He could see the hot residues of the half-dozen sets of tracks, slowly fading. Whoever had made them was good, barely a pebble dislodged or a tuft of coarse grass displaced… and they clearly had no love for Beastmen, which was encouraging. Perhaps they were Warmen scouts? He had always felt more of an affinity with them, and usually wore the distinctive Scout-uniform and poncho as opposed to the less abbreviated cadin'gai and battle-cape worn by the line-Warmen. _

_Though N'aethan had other senses at his disposal. The mind-sensing of Shadow-wrought only worked when he was in contact with his Shield – he was glad that girl-Sed- glad that the Aes Sedai had given it back without a fuss… eventually. But then again, there was always his nose. In fact, there was something just over there…_

"There is some things here. Aes Sedai, these are yours?"

_N'aethan turned away from the culvert and held up the strange, double leather bags, but the Aes Sedai did not seem to have heard, she was staring at something else… He had detected her distinctive scent on the clothes in some of these bags, it had led him to them, as well as another scent on clothing in the other bags… in fact, he could smell that _same_ scent, intermingled with blood, much stronger, coming from… from the small pile of rocks. With the sword sticking out of the top. That the Aes Sedai had gone to kneel in front of. Oh dear. She was crying again. He was _definitely_ going to have to put his arm around her this time…_

Ellyth walked slowly over to the low cairn, piled rocks fit snugly together, that lay in the shadow of the broken crag. There could be little doubt who lay beneath it. Atual's power-wrought blade was thrust into the top of the meagre monument, the black veil he had taken from the Aielman bound to the hilt, fluttering in the wind. She knelt before it.

Ellyth had not thought she had any tears left. She was wrong. Though this time, after a moment, the Shieldman knelt down beside her and she felt a powerful arm draped carefully around her shoulders. She tensed, then relaxed and leant into him a little, her head resting lightly against a broad shoulder. They said nothing for a time, looking at the cairn. When the Shieldman eventually spoke, in that odd, throaty voice, he sounded almost as sad as she _felt!_

"Aes Sedai… those who fall in War with Shadow, War that never ends… they are the _beloved_ of the Creator." The Shieldman glanced down at her, smiled that strange smile. "It is true. It is what Father told to me, when asked him what became of Elder Brother…"

* * *

><p><strong>Part II : Afternoon<strong>

Cohradin sat, submerged up to his chest in… _water!_ It was easily the strangest thing that he had ever done. And he had done some _very_ strange things in his time, enough strangeness for any ten ordinary men. But one-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ was no ordinary man – there was nothing ordinary about him! Why, he had once eaten several live scorpions, popping the small black creatures into his mouth one by one, chewing briskly before they could sting him. He had done it because a loud-mouthed Thunder Walker had said that he would not. They had not been _that_ bad, all things considered… but even so, were probably better when cooked and glazed with honey.

In addition to honour, Cohradin's bold feat had won him a fine book that the _Sha'mad Conde_ had foolishly wagered, a very old volume, the last part of the story of an ancient wetlander Lord's life. He had been a Borderlands Warrior-Society Leader, a man who kept using his own name as though he were speaking of somebody else, the rueful (and slightly sickened-looking) Thunder Walker had told him. Apparently, it was all about the times when the Neverborn and Shadow-twisted stupidly came south to the Dying Ground, which made the book about two thousand years old… books tended to last longer in the dry climate of the Three-fold Land. But it had all been written in the Old Tongue, and there were no pictures, just a few maps. Cohradin did not know how to read the Old Tongue, so he gave the book to Gerom, who did.

But now, Cohradin was doing something that made the scorpions he had munched to death in front of a crowd of alternately cheering, groaning and scowling _algai'd'siswai_ look like nothing – he was bathing himself, like a wetlander… in _water!_

The pool at the far end of the valley lay between two hills where the water had collected, surrounded by a small area of low woodland. It was not large by wetlander standards, he supposed, but he had taken part in violent battles over _half _this amount of water. In the Three-fold Land, water was worth shedding blood over – sometimes, as much blood as the water itself.

The Maidens of the Spear sat across from him, perched up on a rock, their long tails of hair un-braided. Cohradin watched Jahdi and Manda with his one eye. They appeared to be washing each other's hair. Perhaps they would even become near-sisters? Cohradin nodded approvingly. At least they were not trying to kill each other anymore. It had been very irritating, the way they had kept trying to do that, when they were all still back in Shienar…

Tevin popped to the surface at the end of the pool, gasping, his bright red hair plastered wetly to his skull, eyes tightly shut. He blinked them open. "How long was it, Cohradin?" he asked, breathlessly.

"Huh? Oh, at least twenty-four hand counts…"

"Twenty-four! That is _six more_ than last time!"

"Yes… yes it is."

"When I have got my breath back, I will try again!" enthused Tevin. "Perhaps I can even stay beneath this water for _thirty_ hand counts!"

Cohradin sighed. "In stead of behaving like a 'fish' why do you not just sit still, young-one? Or better yet, find us something to _eat?_" Since he considered that he had been given a choice in the matter, Tevin elected to sit still. Cohradin shrugged. At least young Tevin did not seem afraid of this water, like _some_.

Tevin glanced at the Maidens to see if they were looking at him. They were not – no, now one was. Manda stared a moment, then whispered something into Jahdi's ear. They giggled. Tevin looked away, blushing. The Maidens noticed.

"Come over here, pretty young man, and we will wash your hair also!" Manda called, cheerfully.

"We will get it nice and clean for you, handsome boy," added Jahdi salaciously, "come and sit down beside us!"

Tevin flushed. "My hair is already clean, _Far Dareis Mai_," he muttered.

"What did he say? He has such a quiet voice, like a little dove…"

"Yes, perhaps he will sing for us if we ask him to nicely. I think he warbled that his hair is _clean_, which it most certainly is _not_…"

"I _said_ I am _algai'd'siswai_ and _Sovin Nai_ and I do not need a silly girl who carries a man's spear to wash my hair for me!" announced Tevin.

"Then perhaps we can think of something else to do with you in stead?"

The Maidens cackled, slapping each other on the back.

Tevin scowled. "I have my first scar now," he declared, pointing to the small red crescent on his cheek, yet to whiten, "you may not treat me as a boy anymore!"

"Oh, is that a _scar_, little bird?"

"We thought that you had been bitten by a flea!"

Jahdi and Manda's laughter increased as Tevin rose from the pool. "I have no time for a Maiden's foolishness," he told Cohradin loudly, "I will find firewood."

"The Maidens can do that, since they have finished washing _their_ hair," Cohradin replied, equally loudly, but without much hope of them actually _doing_ it. "Take your bow, see if you can find some 'rabbits.' Or… what are those other things called, that we have seen in these parts? Like the rabbits, only swifter, and with the longer ears and legs?"

"Hares_._"

"_Hairs?_ They do not seem particularly hairy… such strange names, these wetlanders have, for their food."

"It is spelt differently, Cohradin. Also, the wetlanders say that to 'hare' means to run fast."

"It is? They do? How do you know this, young Tevin?"

"Because in a wetland book I once read, one of the characters was… _Hare_." She had been the main character, Tevin recalled, and there had also been Mouse and Vole and Hedgehog… various others… the creatures all lived in the middle of a 'briar-patch' whatever that was, and had adventures together, that mostly seemed to involve avoiding and outwitting a Bear, a Wolf, a Wildcat and a Fox, that wished to devour them. Quite a good book, really… fine pictures…

Cohradin smiled his twisted smile. Tevin blinked at him. _He_ looked a bit like the picture of the Wolf in the book, come to think of it. Wolf had always been smiling like that, when he tried to trick Hare into leaving the safety of the briar-patch.

"You have a strange taste in literature, young-one. Was it perhaps meant as an allegory?"

"I do not know what-"

"Never mind! In any event, get some of these… 'hares' if you can."

Tevin nodded and exited the pool, stalking off to fetch his bow. The Maidens watched him go with open lechery. Jahdi's fingers flickered.

_he has a very nice bottom…_

_we should play Maidens Kiss with him…_

_can you play it when there are just two Maidens?_

_there is but one way to find out!_

Cohradin leant back, trying to relax, but a scuffing sound continued to disturb him and he turned his head. Chassin still squatted up on the bank, grimly rubbing his back with coarse sand. He had flatly refused to go in the water. Cohradin sighed.

"Will you not just try it, my friend?"

Chassin glared at him, grabbing another handful of sand and rubbing it briskly into his hair, where there were still traces of Shadow-blood. Behind him, one of Manda's climbing ropes had been strung between two stunted trees and a row of drying _cadin'sor_ hung along it. Gerom stood in front of the washing, rubbing at a persistent stain with a small piece of soap. He could be very fastidious about his clothing. But at least Gerom was dripping wet, he had had the courage to immerse himself once. The Shaido were meant to embrace change, it was their strength. Not to shun something, just because it was new and different.

"What is the matter, Chassin, do you fear the water?" Cohradin enquired.

Chassin continued to sit there, cleaning himself with sand, since there was no sweat-lodge available, but his pale green eyes narrowed alarmingly.

"Cohradin, you are my near-brother and the Leader of my Society at Wet Sands but if you say that I am scared of _anything_ (besides the sky falling down and squashing me, naturally) then I would take it as the gravest insult, worthy of blood!"

Cohradin raised his hands, peaceably, before lowering them into the water. "Very well, Chassin. I apologise. Let there be no blood shed between us."

"I accept your apology. You have a fine sense of humour, Cohradin, but you should not make jokes like that. It goes against- _wubb!_"

The double handful of water hit Chassin in the face and before he could get out of the way, Cohradin hurled another which splashed over his back. He leapt to his feet, muddy streaks of wet sand – appropriate, for they were of Wet Sands Hold! – making him look not unlike a Sharan striped-cat.

This similarity had already occurred to Cohradin. "There, now you will _have_ to come in to the water, or go about looking like a Sharan striped-cat!"

The Maidens cackled loudly and Gerom bellowed with laughter, doubling over. Tevin came back, clutching his bow, pointed and sniggered. Chassin glared at them all, then, setting his features in a mask of grim determination, took a running leap into the middle of the pool, curling into a ball just before hitting the water. After the large splash, there was no sign of him for a time. The Maidens watched the surface of the pool with disinterest. Tevin yawned, then walked away. Eventually, Cohradin waded over to where Chassin had disappeared and reached down, locating the tail of hair of an _algai'd'siswai_. He pulled and Chassin came to the surface, struggling and gasping.

"You are not supposed to stay _down there_, my friend," Cohradin chided, trying to remember what the slippery snake creatures that lived in the rivers were called – ah, yes! "You are not an 'eel'. Here, sit upon this rock and get your breath back. There, do you not see how pleasant this 'bathing' is now?"

Chassin glared at Cohradin, coughed up some water, then glared at Cohradin further. "This is worse than the _rain_," he spluttered, before glumly beginning to un-braid his tail of hair.

Cohradin nodded with satisfaction – the mighty Shaido Aiel would _not_ be seen to fear bathing themselves in water, which even craven wetlanders did not! – and sat down again. He winked at Jahdi and Manda, making them disappear momentarily.

"Come and sit beside _me_ and wash _my_ hair, Maidens..." he suggested. "I promise that I will not ask you to give up the spear for me if you do!"

The Maidens eyed Cohradin consideringly for a moment, then glanced at each other. Manda pouted a little, Jahdi shrugged. Smiling slow smiles, they slipped down from the stone and waded towards him, a pleasing sight – before each seized a shoulder and, laughing, began forcing Cohradin's head beneath the surface! He was just beginning to enjoy the struggle to prevent the Maidens from drowning him, even though he seemed to be _losing_ that struggle, when Tevin came racing back and whistled, a low warning note.

Instantly, the Shaido were all out of the pool, reaching for veils and spears. There was someone coming. Someone with terrible timing!

* * *

><p>Gross immodesty! Flagrant indecency! Ellyth did not know where to look, she really didn't. Her face must be as red as a <em>beetroot<em>… No-doubt Shrina would be thoroughly enjoying this alarming experience in _her_ place, as she _liked_ looking at naked men! She had said so, often enough! Ellyth, on the other hand, would rather have been attacked by _clothed_ enemies than… than _not _attacked by four Aielmen who, but for their black veils, wore not a stitch!

And there were two naked Aiel _women_ also, equally unashamed to parade themselves so brazenly! Their nudity did not bother her so much as the men's, she was not so prim as to fear to bathe or go swimming with other females – but how could these Aielwomen run around like that, with _everyone_ looking at them? Well, no-one appeared to be looking at them, she supposed, the Aiel were all looking at _her_.

Ellyth turned to the Shieldman – no doubt as shocked as she – but no, _he_ was looking at the Aielwomen, an appreciative smile curling his lips! Ellyth sniffed, loudly and pointedly. The Shieldman glanced at her, and blinked. Before resuming his aesthetic appraisal! She noted that the red-headed Aiel girl was smiling _back_ at him!

The Aielmen were eyeing her respectfully enough, she supposed, but… they were not wearing any clothes at all! Naked! Apart from the veils. Not that they had worn their sole garments for long. The moment they had seen her, the Aiel had immediately lowered both spears and the strips of black cloth, draping them around their shoulders – when draping them about their _hips_ might have been some improvement on the situation, at least!

The Aiel had come charging out of the bushes – though she did not wish to dwell on _that_ particular image – their spears raised, eleven fierce eyes glaring above black veils. By which point, the Shieldman had already informed her that they were coming. How had he known? Aiel were not Shadowspawn… He had not seemed overly concerned at their sudden appearance, had simply dropped the saddlebags and sheathed sword he was carrying and taken a neat step in front of her, standing poised on his toes, gloved hands raised, bunched into fists.

Ellyth had put a hand on the Shieldman's back, perhaps to restrain him, perhaps not, she was unsure… and had felt the thick muscles around his shoulders bunch suddenly beneath her touch. They had not felt like the muscles of a man, even a very strong man like Atual, but more like the denser musculature of Eradore, tensing beneath her as the mare braced for a leap. There was the sense of a great deal of power in his compactly muscular frame – perhaps even too much power… for a man.

Though the restraining hand and the fact that the Aiel had lowered their spears and veils so suddenly had prevented him from doing… whatever it was he did. What he had done to the Myrddraal. Not to mention the Draghkar.

"They are friends, Aes Sedai?" the Shieldman had wanted to know.

"Yes, I think so." Ellyth gazed at the one-eyed Aielman she recognised – he was a little difficult to mistake for anyone else! – being careful to keep her eyes _firmly_ on his face... though she had not been able to stop herself from staring downwards in alarm a little earlier, as they came leaping energetically into sight. These Aielmen were… big indeed… _especially_ the short, pale-haired one… her eyes drifted a moment, then snapped up again, even more blood rushing to her cheeks – _beetroot?_ If only! She must look as red as a _strawberry!_

"Well?" Ellyth demanded, "_are_ you friends?" Her voice choked a little.

"I see you, Ellythia Desiama of the Blue Ajah," Cohradin stated formally – though she could certainly see a lot more of him than he of her, a lot more than she wanted to! – and then the scarred, one-eyed warrior grinned that disturbing grin she recalled from the Saldaean border. Had it really only been three months ago?

"As for 'friends…' I do not know – but we have no wish to be _enemies _of an Aes Sedai, I can assure you, so I suppose that we must be!" At which, Cohradin and the other Aielmen bowed that odd bow with the cupped hand stuck out, their spears twirled swiftly, the points stuck down into the ground… she was being bowed to by naked savages! It was like something out of _The_ _Travels of Jain Farstrider!_ Ellyth tried to look elsewhere. The Aiel women were not bowing, she noticed, seeming to only have eyes for the Shieldman… who was certainly enjoying looking at them too… _men!_

These Aiel were even worse than Shienarans at bathtime! Though it would be good to bathe herself also, as they had clearly been doing, since their skin glistened wetly, damp strands of hair hanging about their shoulders – but why would they not at least have partially-clothed themselves after, instead of sprinting down here like… like young children, yet to learn modesty, who think it no shame to run about nude?

Now the blonde Aielwoman was smiling at the Shieldman also – and he was smiling back! Ellyth sniffed again, and the Shieldman glanced at her. She leant closer to his ear, partially covered by the thick black band he wore about his head.

"Do not _look_, Master Shieldman," Ellyth hissed, under her breath, "you will _only_ encourage then to further lewd displays, baser even than that which we are currently being forced to witness…" Again, he blinked at her confusedly – she was becoming all-too accustomed to that blink!

"This is… custom? Aes Sedai?"

"Custom..?"

"We should take clothes off also?" He made as though to remove his fancloth.

"_No!_"

The Shieldman shrugged and eyed the Aielmen instead. Who were now eyeing him, as though unsure what he was. She was not sure either.

Ellyth _strongly_ wished to suggest – well, more than merely _suggest_ – that the Aiel clothe themselves. But Lord Guye had always told her that only a fool expected someone who lived somewhere very far away to share their customs. Best not to say anything about it – much as she wished to!

Ellyth could feel a crick starting to form in the back of her neck. This Cohradin fellow was too bloody tall and standing too bloody close to her, but she would not retreat – just as she would not let her eyes go any further down than his collar-bone again!

Ellyth glared at the Shieldman… who did not seem to be disturbed in the slightest by this shocking situation! Presumably, he had as little concept of modesty as the savages – why, he was as bad as the Aiel were! If not worse…

_Shieldmen!_

* * *

><p>Cohradin eyed the Aes Sedai cautiously, as well as with some confusion. Her face, where it was not covered with the small, pale bandage, was bright red. Was she sunburnt? There was hardly any sun to speak of, even by the standards of the wetlands, a far from sunny place it seemed… Her pale complexion would certainly not react well to the fierce glare he was accustomed to in the Three-fold Land… but why was she so flushed, her cheeks the colour of the red <em>tomato<em>-fruit of Shara? It was odd.

Cohradin's attention shifted to the compact, broad-chested man accompanying the Aes Sedai. Whoever he was, he had rather strange eyes. But Cohradin had only seen the Borderlands so far, where most people's eyes were dark… except for Saldaea, where they were even darker, and of an odd shape also. Doubtless, there were other parts of the Wetlands where such eyes were commonplace. He was wearing a garment woven from the colour-shifting cloth. As was the Aes Sedai, now. So, by the looks of it, she had found herself a new Warder to take the place of _Sin'val Vadin_.

On their way to bathe in water like wetlanders (though only Cohradin had known that this was what they were going to do, as he had wished it to be a surprise) the Shaido had mutually agreed to call Atual Aendwyn by this Honour Name. The Aes Sedai was wise indeed! Doubtless, she had prophecied – as it was said the Dreamwalkers could – that _Sin'val Vadin_ would fall in battle, so had arranged for another Gaidin to be waiting to meet her at the special Aes Sedai white cave. Or _Allen'tuadhe_, the 'Hill of Milk' as they had decided to call it. Chassin had reported that the walls of the cave were white and gleaming, like freshly-squeezed goat's milk, so Gerom had invented this name – as he had also come-up with the title of honour for the Aes Sedai's dead Warder. Gerom could not speak the Old Tongue at all well, he found its words too difficult to pronounce, but he read it adeptly enough and was good at making up names for things in this ancient language.

Cohradin turned back to the Aes Sedai as she addressed him, head tilted back, her cheeks still very red, dark eyes fixed securely on his face.

"I thank you for making a small tomb for my Gaidin. The sword with the black veil tied to it was a fine touch. It was very good of you to go to the trouble."

"We were honoured to do such a thing for _Sin'val Vadin_," Cohradin responded smoothly.

The Aes Sedai blinked. "Excuse me?" Her new Warder leant forward and in an odd, throaty voice, with a strange, melodic accent, supplied the translation.

"Aes Sedai, he say; 'He who Guards Gate.' "

"Oh…"

Cohradin wondered if the Aes Sedai was going to weep, her eyes were rather large and liquid anyway, but he thought that he could see unshed tears glistening in them.

Gerom glanced at the Gaidin thoughtfully, lips pursed. The fellow clearly spoke the Old Tongue – and he must speak it well indeed to have divined meaning from _that_, for Cohradin's pronunciation was even worse than his own!

The Aes Sedai blinked a few times, composing herself. "It is very kind of you, to honour him in that way."

"It is well to remember the courageous dead," stated Cohradin, "he slew an Eyeless as well as many of the Shadow-twisted, and we waked the rest, washing our spears and hands in their blood, as is only proper. A brave man."

The Aes Sedai nodded, seemingly blinking back further tears. Why did she not just weep? There was no shame in doing so...

"My Warder would have been proud to have such a name given him by you and your men…" the Aes Sedai murmured, "...and your women also." She glanced at the Maidens, then back at him, her eyes drifting down for a moment before she looked up again, very fast. Aes Sedai were strange indeed! Was there something bothering her? The skin of her face had almost faded to its customary pallor as she spoke, but now it coloured again. "Atual Gaidin often spoke of the courage of your people," she added, quickly.

"Did he dance with those who slew the Treekiller?" Cohradin enquired.

"Yes… yes he fought the ones who came to… to execute King Laman."

Cohradin nodded, pleased. That was a politer way of putting it than he had ever heard before from a wetlander. Could it be that Aes Sedai were more polite when their faces were red? Perhaps that was a sign of it? Aes Sedai were _unusual_, they were like Wise Ones, no longer merely human but something _more_ than human… but then, Cohradin frowned, remembering who had done the executing.

"Ah, but _they_ were just the tricksome Taardad!"

"_And_ the stinking Shaarad," Gerom added.

"Not to mention the noisome Nakai," Chassin pointed-out.

"As well as the… the Reyn," young Tevin chimed-in, uncertainly. He was not sure if there even _was_ a rude term beginning with 'r' for the Reyn Aiel, he had certainly never heard of one… he would have to ask somebody.

The other _Sovin Nai_ had moved closer to add these bits of information. They felt that Cohradin had kept the Aes Sedai to himself so far, monopolised her even… and they wished to speak with her also. One did not get the opportunity to provide helpful information to a creature of legend very often!

As they crowded around her, Cohradin wondered why the Aes Sedai was flinching back a little, her face still _tomato_-hued… was she blushing? _Why_ was she blushing? Was it because the foolish Maidens of the Spear were overtly making eyes at her new Warder? And _smiling_ at him? Yes, that must be it. The improvident Maidens had managed to… to _embarrass_ the Aes Sedai, with their wanton behaviour! _Far Dareis Mai!_

"Yes, Ellythia Sedai," Cohradin continued, hoping that she would not be angry with him for not better controlling the poorly-behaved Maidens of the Spear, "_they_ were just the lesser Clans who waked the wetland King and all of the other wetlanders – the Treekillers were fortunate that the mighty Shaido were not there also!"

Cohradin always regretted that they were not. He would only have been eight years old at the time, but he would not have let _that_ stop him from going! There were many fine things in the Wetlands that he would have been only too glad to take as part of his fifth… as well as much honour to be gained… it was a shame. But there it was.

The Aes Sedai still had her head tilted back as she examined their faces. Even Chassin was taller than her, and as for Gerom – she was going to hurt her neck if she kept doing that! "Well, in any case, my Warder was _not_ one of the 'wetlanders' that those other, lesser clans 'waked' as you put it... quite the opposite in fact…" she muttered, somewhat distractedly, Cohradin thought. "Atual did not oft speak of it, but I believe that he accounted for scores of the enemy… oh… I suppose I should not say that…"

"Why not? I am sure that _Sin'val Vadin_ slew a great many of the Taardad and the other creeping crawlers who followed after them like obedient goats, and I wish his spirit well of it! The more the better!"

"What was that name again?" the Aes Sedai enquired.

"_Sin'val Vadin_, Aes Sedai," muttered her new Gaidin helpfully, " 'He Who-' "

"-Guards the Gate, yes, thank-you Master Shieldman. That is a fine title, I will ensure that it is added to the name of Atual- of my Warder, on his memorial stone in the Hall of Gaidin, when I return to the White Tower."

The Aes Sedai turned, regarding her Warder, who stood up straighter. Strange, Cohradin considered, that he did not have the other Warder's dishonourable sword buckled to his belt or back, where wetlanders often carried them, it just lay at his feet with the large leather bags that the horses carried. He appeared to be unarmed, but for the odd metal tube that hung at his hip. What was it? He had something draped about his neck that was also of the colour-shifting cloth, it looked a little like a _shoufa_… there even seemed to be a veil hanging down from it, though of course it was not black. Were there wetlanders who veiled their faces for the Dance also? Perhaps Gerom would know... if only _he_ had read more books!

"The Tower… where I mean to return as soon and as fast as possible," the Aes Sedai added. Her Warder nodded, and picked up the bags and sword.

"Honour to Obey, Aes Sedai," he acknowledged, huskily.

The Warder had a very strange way of speaking. Cohradin had not met any wetlanders who spoke as he did, though he had not met many wetlanders, for that matter. Perhaps he was from the part of the wetlands known as 'Andor?' Where it was said (by the Gleeman, Roth Blucha, at least) that a ravenous Witch Queen ruled, who ate a man for her dinner each and every day! But this seemed unlikely – doubtless another of the Gleeman's foolish (if entertaining) falsehoods!

Cohradin fiddled with the veil hanging about his shoulders, while he considered. It seemed the Aes Sedai had _not_ found He Who Comes With the Dawn waiting in the _Allen'tuadhe_, just her new Warder… although… he did not look quite like _Sin'val Vadin_ or the other Gaidin they had seen in Shienar. There was definitely something _different_ about this fellow that set him apart… with his very short, pale hair above the odd black band… his rather pointy teeth flashing as he spoke his strange speech… his eyes were unusual, certainly… there could not be _that_ many wetlanders with eyes like that..? And his 'cloak' seemed more like _two_ cloaks joined together… it was not at all like the other colour-shifting garments of the Warders, like the one the Aes Sedai currently wore draped over her own shoulders. The garb he wore beneath it was strange also, glistening like the skin of a bloodsnake, from what little he could see. And what _was_ that metal tube hanging at his hip? Yes, there was _something_ about this short, muscular wetlander… even for a Gaidin, he did not seem as ordinary men. Cohradin started to become suspicious...

"Tell me, what are the dispositions of the enemy?" the Aes Sedai asked.

"Maidens of the Spear – cease batting your eyelashes! Tell to the Aes Sedai what you know of the whereabouts of the remaining Spawn of the Shadow!"

The Knife Hands clustered a little closer to give the scowling Maidens room to speak to the Aes Sedai, though they did not wish to. Cohradin noted that she had gone an even brighter shade of red now. Would this mean she would be even _more_ polite to the _Far Dareis Mai_? He hoped that she would not, after they had made eyes at her Warder right in front of her. Why did they not just hold his hand, or kiss him upon the lips, for all to see? No understanding of public propriety at all!

_Maidens!_

* * *

><p>N'aethan studied the natives carefully, though taking care not to stare too obviously. Perhaps they were from some local, feral tribe? Some had resumed the ancient ways of their ancestors in the face of the Time of Madness – they had been called 'Atavists' he seemed to recall. But the sudden appearance of these warriors was confusing to him. When the naked spear-people whose footsteps he had been following first came rushing out of the bushes, though he had sensed them coming shortly before they did (they were still very stealthy though, these natives) he had, of course, immediately prepared himself to kill them all. That was what a Shieldman did, after all, when unidentified assailants came rushing toward his Aes Sedai.<p>

But then, the natives had abruptly faltered, stopped, lowered their long-bladed spears and strange black veils both, and stood there. They even looked a little respectful! So, N'aethan had not killed them, which was good, for he did not like to slay humans, with the exception of Dreadlords and Friends of the Dark, and these nude warriors were clearly neither. Well, they _could_ be Shadow-sworn he supposed, there were Dark-Friends everywhere, but none of these natives had ever been to Shayol Ghul or he would have known it, so they could not be very important ones… Besides, it was unlikely. He had seen many different Friends of the Dark over the years, spies and assassins mostly, though they had rarely seen _him_ until it was much too late for them to do anything except scream. But for Grey Men, of course, they never screamed, just looked slightly startled that he could _see_ them... and in any case, with _them_ it was like killing something that was already dead. But that was beside the point, for they had all been _clothed_, often very fine clothes at that… he had never encountered a Friend of the Dark who was naked and brandishing a spear! It did not seem like the sort of thing one of their ignoble number would be interested in doing…

N'aethan always knew if someone had been to _Shayol Ghul_, as had his Brothers. No one knew why, not even Father, which had made him angry. Not angry with his Sons, he was never angry with them, seldom moving much beyond irritation ('_Tro!_') if one of them managed to break something in one of his many 'special laboratories' which only they or Ledrin were permitted to enter. No, never actually angry with _them_ – which had made for a very strange argument the day after Middle Brother's memorial service, when he had defied Father and gone back north to the wars – but just angry with _not knowing_. Father had never liked to not know things.

Whilst relaxing his muscles that had become bunched-up at the prospect of doing what he did to Shield an Aes Sedai, N'aethan considered the natives. They had killed the Beastmen, an impressive feat given that there was barely a squad of them. Of course, this did not automatically make them servants of the Light – the Trollocs who served the Renegades and those who served the Shadow had often fought each other. The two fine-looking females were pointing east and giving the same information about the Shadow-wrought that he had already provided, the men glowering at them. And they were all naked! Perhaps they were like the Ffyanna?

The mythical Ffyanna-Ffynn of the First Age had been the finest fighters in the whole world, it was said, divided into the four Tribes of Ffyann-Ffyane, who usually fought only with each other, scorning all other, lesser opponents. They were chiefly remembered for their odd custom of going into battle wearing nothing but a thin coat of sky-blue paint… these warriors seemed to have forgotten to paint themselves, if that was the case!

But no, these tall natives were wet and glistening, their hair hanging damply around their shoulders in loose strands. They had clearly just been bathing themselves and had not wasted the time to dress when they heard a possible enemy approach. Very sensible, he would have done the same thing in their place.

N'aethan had ceased his clandestine appreciation of the native girls as he suspected that the Aes Sedai might disapprove – he sensed that there was _much_ about him of which she might disapprove! – and glanced at her. He blinked in surprise – the Aes Sedai's face was bright red! Was she alright? His eyes moved from her to the naked, one-eyed native she was talking to… she had her head craned right back, was staring up at the tall fellow's face, seeming to not want to look any further down than his neck. Why was she so flushed, this dispassionate young Aes Sedai? She was only surrounded by native folk who had been bathing, by the looks of it… _bathing?_ Now _what_ did that make him think of? And then, realisation struck N'aethan – of course! It was obvious! She was _blushing_ – the Aes Sedai was a _prude!_

Kiam Sedai had been something of a prude also, N'aethan recalled… really, this young Aes Sedai rather reminded him of Kiam, in certain ways at least. He remembered how Kiam had _never_ bathed in the large, communal Bath-Circle located in the ground level of The Keystone, the massive fortress that formed the centre of the Northborder defences, about which the Main Camp was emplaced. At least a thousand bathers could be accommodated in the central pool and the concentric rings of circular baths that radiated out from it. War-Sisters and Warmen Officers and _Da'shain_, all bathing together, the low murmur of a hundred different conversations echoing up to the cuendillar tiles above… _Da'shain_… now why did _that_ make him think of these natives? No matter, he expected that the _Da'shain Aiel_ were all long since dead and dust, like nearly everything else he had known, it seemed.

The Bath-Circle... N'aethan had never bathed there either, but that was more a question of rank – he was only a Shieldman and was not permitted to, whereas Kiam Sedai, as a War-Sister, certainly _was_. N'aethan usually bathed with the Warmen Sergeants in their bath in the Main Barracks, wearing his headband and waterproof gloves and slippers, but nothing else. It was boring, bathing with the Sergeants, big, hard-eyed men with faces like stone who always just sat there in the steaming water saying nothing to each other beyond 'pass the soap, Warman' or 'here is the soap, Warman.' His attempts to start conversations were usually along the lines of;

_'That_ was a big Trolloc you slew earlier, Sergeant Hurey...'

'It was, Gholam-Killer.'

That was it! You could not really go much further from _there_, conversationally. Saying; 'yes, _very_ big' or 'it had big tusks too' or a hundred other banalities would usually just be greeted with impassive silence. The Warmen did not know how to do anything but make war and did not want to, they had no wish to converse, even had they any conception _how_… bathing with the Sergeants was boring!

N'aethan wished he could have used the main Bath-Circle or even just the one on the level above that was for the Warman Officer's use, since they were usually a bit more affable and knowledgeable about things other than war, the Intelligence Officers particularly. They had all been picked-out from the other Warmen at the age of twelve and given different, initiative-based training that resulted in them being more individualistic, at least. But it was a question of rank again, he was not permitted to use the Officer's Baths either – they only started letting him bathe with the Sergeants after he killed the _Gholam!_ Before that, he had had to use the soldier's baths in the Barracks with all the other Warmen, which had been even more dull, if anything!

Of course, a word with Latra Sedai would have given him immediate admittance to the Officer's Baths in a split-chime, the right to wear a sword at his side too, even… but he would not have liked to bother her with such small, trivial issues, not when she had so much on her mind. Besides, he was too proud. Middle Brother (who had, of course, held an Officer's rank) had once told him that honours should always be received unasked-for, never sought-after – so when it came to bath-privileges, let the War-Sisters extend such an invitation to him of their own volition. He had his pride. He would not go crawling on the floor, rubbing himself against their legs for favours!

So, much as N'aethan would have liked to have bathed with the War-Sisters and Officers and _Da'shain_ in the Bath-Circle (though he doubted even _Shadar Nor's_ command would have got him admitted _there_) and perhaps speak of opera or theatre whilst he bathed, or enjoy a game of _tcheran_ or _no'ri_ with a fellow bather, it was not permitted. Whereas for Kiam Sedai, it _was_ – but she _never_ did!

And N'aethan knew _why!_ Because there were _men_ there! _That_ was why Kiam _always_ used the baths that were reserved for the War-Sisters only, when she did not bathe alone in her quarters – she did not wish to be in the same bath as males, or even _see_ a naked man for that matter. Or be seen by one either, he supposed. And it was not just because she did not like men in 'that' way, there were other War-Sisters who shared her preference yet did not seem to mind being around Warmen Officers or _Da'shain'allein_ in the shared ritual of communal bathing that was part of the glue that bound together the odd, warlike society of the Northborder garrisons. No, it was because Kiam was a prude – _just like_ this young Aes Sedai!

N'aethan was well-aware that Kiam Sedai was from N'zoar, the City that had once floated amongst the clouds, though long-gone now, destroyed in the first year of the War after its Citizens refused to swear to the Shadow. The part that had not been eradicated with balefire had crashed into the World Sea somewhere to the north of the Black College, he believed… and the people of N'zoar had always been noted for their prim and prudish ways. Sometimes, he thought that Kiam hated Father so much because he was N'zoarese also. She often loudly referred to Chaime Sedai as 'The Defector' in N'aethan's hearing – though she knew he did not like the term – and had even been disciplined by Latra Sedai for doing so. Certainly, Father had always used a private bathing room but sometimes, whilst padding past it, young Tro had heard muffled women's voices on the other side of the door, often giggling at one of Father's rude jokes, told in the Low, which did not seem to be prudish behaviour?

It did not take long for this recollection and realisation to run through N'aethan's mind and with it, as always, came decision. He took a quick step between the Aes Sedai – _his_ Aes Sedai, he supposed, since her Warman was now dead and there did not seem to be any of his Brother Warmen about these parts, enlivening the proceedings with their sunny personalities – and the one-eyed native. Who he then reappraised.

The tall fellow just looked at him with that cold blue eye and N'aethan decided that the man was dangerous. Not _very_ dangerous, at least not to him, but not just _quite_ dangerous either. N'aethan had earlier dismissed these unclothed natives as merely quite dangerous, the women also – _they_ were an attractive pair, despite the scars! Did they not have Restorers, or Healing now? Still, perhaps this thousand-years-later world might not be quite so bad after all! But _this_ one-eyed native, who appeared to be their leader or 'Chieftain' he supposed, who was observing him coldly, was not like his quite dangerous comrades, he was clearly _more_… dangerous.

N'aethan prided himself on his manners, so he bowed to the Chieftain, who blinked in surprise. He was well-adapted for blinking. And that was an impressive scar, he had never seen a scar like that before! Someone who took a wound of that magnitude should be either Healed or dead – this man was neither!

"Hello," said N'aethan.

"Do not push in front of me, Master Shieldman!" snapped the young Aes Sedai from behind his back, "I was speaking with Cohradin Shaido!"

One-Eye winced a little, gave N'aethan a warning stare, then glanced over his shoulder - he was easily tall enough to do so - and muttered, "your pardon, Ellythia Sedai, but you need only use my name, Shaido is my Clan, you do not need to say this also!"

"I did not realise," muttered the Aes Sedai.

N'aethan did not flinch as a small fist punched him in the back. Shaido… so _that_ was what these tall, light-eyed natives were called. They were Shaidos. What an odd name! It sounded a bit like the Low word for _Shadar_.

N'aethan smiled his politest smile. "Excuse," he said, "you perhaps have garments, Shaido? Not good to appear before Aes Sedai thus."

One-Eye seemed to consider this, even though it obviously confused him, then made some swift hand-signs to the youngest native, who nodded and trotted off into the stand of low, twisted trees from which they had all so swiftly emerged. N'aethan turned to bow to the Aes Sedai… she blinked, seeming to understand his intent.

"Thank-you, Master Shieldman," she murmured, sounding grateful.

N'aethan beamed at her. It always pleased him to anticipate an Aes Sedai's wishes – he thought he would have made a fine _Da'shain Aiel_ (were it not for the shocking levels of violence he often perpetrated on Shadow-wrought) since he excelled at such service. He also had a good singing voice, various _Da'shain_ had told him over the years… not that he really saw the point of performing to an audience that comprised primarily of seeds! It was better to try to please _people_ with song, to keep the darkness at bay with it… Latra Sedai had always liked his singing… N'aethan sighed. When her name popped into his head, he felt bad. Was that ever going to ease, or would he feel that way for the rest of his life, however long that was?

One-Eye was eyeing him (literally!) closely.

"You have a strange way of speaking, Brother of Battles…"

N'aethan blinked. The fellow thought he was one of these _Gaidin?_ Should he correct him? But no, the Aes Sedai was giving his arm a hard squeeze, before interposing herself into the introductions.

"He answers to Naythan Shieldman. You might say he stands ward to me, now."

One-Eye nodded sagely. "Ah, so he _is_ your new Warderman, Aes Sedai, I thought that he must be…" the native turned back to N'aethan; "I see you, Naythan Shieldman. You have an odd sound to your speech... you are not from the Borderlands, I take it?"

N'aethan frowned. This native spoke rather strangely _himself_, to his ears, quite differently than the Aes Sedai...

"The Northborder, Shaido? Has spent a lot of time there, many years, but hail from the far South, do I… 'twas where I was born in the Light!"

"Oh… the southern wetlands… you are Tairen, perhaps?"

"_Tyreen?_" N'aethan's brow furrowed. What was that? He began to ask… but the young Aes Sedai squeezed his arm harder, so N'aethan closed his mouth with a snap. He could take a hint!

"I believe that Naythan Gaidin might possibly come from somewhere in that region… attend me, Master Shieldman!" She half-led, half-dragged N'aethan some distance away, beyond earshot of the Shaidos. Unless they had ears that were better than _his_, at least. But he thought that they probably did not. He made his apologies for the interrupted conversation over a fancloth-draped shoulder.

"Excuses, Shaido, but Aes Sedai call and Shieldman answer!"

"Master Shieldman… shut-up!"

"Yes, Aes Sedai. Forgiveness, Aes Sedai."

N'aethan shrugged as he followed the Aes Sedai away from the Shaido, who would now clothe themselves and confound her prudery thus! Well, it seemed he _was_ a Warderman after all… whatever that was. Was it like a Warman? Did that mean he would get to wear the sword? The scabbarded weapon was currently bumping against his back alongside what he had been told were called 'saddle-bags,' the black cloth still wrapped around the hilt. It was the same as the black cloths these Shaidos had been wearing over their mouths and noses when they came leaping out of the bushes – how loudly the Aes Sedai had squealed!

The cloths were a little like his scout-veil, N'aethan considered, though not camouflaged. He would have been content to leave the sword in the cairn, it was only an infantry-man's blade and not one of the nice ones, marked with the Heron, that Warmen Officers often carried… or the _really _nice ones that the Companions were presented with, when they became Companions… but the Aes Sedai had told him to bring it. She had not wanted her dead Warder's sword ('dear Atual' she called him) to be stolen by Shadowspawn, she had said, she would see it returned to this 'White Tower' for another to use, as he would have wished. Though it was just an ordinary Warman's blade and it had seen better days, to have _that_ bumping on his hip instead of this stupid shocklance…

"Might I have your undivided attention?" N'aethan gave it. The Aes Sedai's eyes had narrowed. "It would be best, Master Shieldman, were you to _not_ tell anyone who is not Aes Sedai anything about yourself," she advised, with slow emphasis.

N'aethan nodded. "Like intelligences, Aes Sedai."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Like intelligences officers, Aes Sedai, Warman Officers of intelligences, I mean… they must be quiet, Aes Sedai, and not talk, and use differents name when under the Shadow!"

"_Different names_. Yes, I do not know quite what you mean with your 'intelligences' though the work of _spies_ is not unknown in these times…" The Aes Sedai sniffed, and muttered something that sounded like 'pigeons' under her breath… "but I believe you take my point. Merely tell the Shaido that you are my Warder, and answer to the name of 'Naythan Shieldman' _only_… if they ask for any information about where you were born, or what you did before… before you went to sleep, decline to answer. If they press you, direct them to me!"

"And you will shouts at them, Aes Sedai!" N'aethan grinned. The Aes Sedai frowned. N'aethan ceased grinning and did his best to look solemn.

"_Shout,_ not shouts. And I shall _not_ shout at them in any event, regardless of what you may imagine the methodology of the Aes Sedai of these times to comprise, though perhaps I _will_ consider setting their boots afire in stead of this, yes?"

N'aethan nodded sagely. He had noticed that the Aes Sedai often ended her sentences with that particular word, so he responded by saying "_yes!_" as he thought that this might please her. It did not seem to, however.

The Aes Sedai sighed, her feathery brows drawing down slightly. "_That_ was intended as a _witticism_, Master Shieldman," she muttered.

N'aethan blinked, then did his best to simper, though he was not very good at it. The Aes Sedai frowned further, and he repressed the urge to sigh himself. It was not _his_ fault – he was unused to Aes Sedai making jokes, Kiam Sedai had certainly never done so... well, he supposed she _had_, but it had usually been a very rare – not to mention disconcerting – occurrence.

"And above all – do not tell them how _old_ you are!" the Aes Sedai hissed.

_That_ had been an odd moment, on their way here... the Aes Sedai's casually asked question, the way she had eyed him closely with that dark, penetrating gaze when she asked it – she had actually thought that _he_, of all things, might be..!

"_Master Shieldman... you mentioned that you received your ter'angreal... your Shield, some fifty years ago..." N'aethan nodded, continuing to scan the ground ahead of them for the tell-tale heat marks. They were getting close now..._

"_Yes Aes Sedai, remember like it was yesterday..." he commented, absently._

"_You... you certainly do not look your age..." A note of disbelief._

"_Ah, but war and fighting take its toll, Aes Sedai... Shieldman doubtless look older than he should, from having seen so many bad and terrible things..."_

"_I did not mean it that way – you look much younger than your... that is to say, you do not... oh, curse it!" The Aes Sedai made an irritated 'tutting' sound, then simply resorted to demanding; "how _old_ are you, Master Shieldman?"_

"_Since was born in the Light? Has seen eight and seventy years, Aes Sedai."_

_The Aes Sedai was gaping at him. N'aethan grinned. _

"_Though mayhap am now three _thousand_ and-"_

"_Seventy-eight? But you look less than _half_ that age! Much less!"_

"_Thank-you, Aes Sedai!"_

"_I am not attempting to _compliment_ you! I am attempting to understand... that is..." N'aethan raised his eyes from the hot footprints leading up the valley and glanced at the Aes Sedai curiously. She was looking suspicious, not to mention... cautious. He stopped walking, as did she, clearly wondering how best to phrase something._

"_Master Shieldman... I am aware that this might be a delicate subject to raise, but it is important to establish, if not for my own safety then for your own, since there are those of the Red Ajah who might... well..." She trailed-off._

"_Aes Sedai?" N'aethan found himself feeling confused – there was another ajah that was... red? The ajah were all of different colours now, it would seem. Presumably the thirteen Great Ajah, created to wage war, were all gone..._

"_Do stop blinking at me like that, Master Shieldman! It becomes most irritating after a while!"_

"_Forgiveness, Aes Sedai."_

"_What I am trying to ascertain, given that your father was Aes Sedai and you claim an advanced age certainly not reflected in your appearance is... can you channel? That is to say, do you touch the True Source?"_

_N'aethan stared for a moment, then began to laugh softly, shaking his head back and forth. _

_The Aes Sedai glared. "I am _not_ a painted court-fool, sent to this miserable, barren place for your entertainment and amusement!" she snapped._

"_Forgiveness, Aes Sedai, do not laugh at you but at me! At... Pattern!"_

"_Explain yourself, Master Shieldman!"_

"_You ask if I can channel, like I might have Taint and be a madman? Not! Quite opposite of this, in fact..." N'aethan forced himself to stop laughing, though with some effort. When he could bring himself to speak, there was a note of bitterness that he could not fully expunge from his tones. "Aes Sedai... I tell you true, Fate has been unkind to Sin'aethan Shadar Cor, unkind in many ways... but touching saidin and rotting and going insane? Not near so unkind as _that!_"_

The Aes Sedai was staring at him rather frostily, N'aethan considered. Perhaps she did not believe he was as old as he claimed? It was not _that_ old, barely into middle-age... Besides, he might not have the longevity of a Nym (though who would want to?) but he shared other things with them, it was why he and Someshta had always got along, he thought, a certain fellow-feeling... and Father had made his Lightborn to _last_, after all! Though given their extremely dangerous duties and what had befallen his Brothers... well, it was unlikely he would die in his bed at a ripe old age! Not that he had ever had much use for a bed beyond keeping things underneath it, or the occasional pleasant liaison with one of the more adventurous War-Sisters or a _Da'shain'mai_... when he slept, he had usually preferred to curl up on the floor... often at the foot of Latra Sedai's bed... yes, _definite_ frost in those dark, liquid eyes!

"Will not say age to them, Aes Sedai," N'aethan reassured her, meekly.

"See that you do not. But above all, be _discrete_, Master Shieldman. Discretion is important, in light of recent events. I was betrayed, possibly from within the White Tower itself… there have been betrayals in the past, certainly…"

"White Tower, Aes Sedai? You say this before – the Tower is where we will go to, now?"

"Yes. Tar Valon, and the White Tower, at its heart. That is from where the Aes Sedai of these times… rule."

"Ah, like Big Hall in Paaran Disen, Aes Sedai!"

"Yes… I suppose… the Hall part is familiar to me at least, irregardless of its… bigness. Now, pay careful heed, Master Shieldman. There are Darkfriends everywhere, treat all you encounter as though they have sold their souls to the Shadow, at least until they have proved otherwise, even the Shaido over there… anyone at all. Even Aes Sedai, for that matter, though it pains me to entertain the possibility. Say nothing of your life apart from to myself. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Aes Sedai. Friends of the Dark everywhere – as ever! My name is Naythan Shieldman the Warderman and I serve Aes Sedai who is named…" N'aethan squinted, trying to recall the strange name she had given. The one the Shaido had used – _very_ familiar of him! – though difficult to pronounce. "_Helathia?_"

"Ellythia. Of House Desiama."

"Yes, _that_, she my Aes Sedai is and if wish to knows anything else you must ask it of _her_."

"_Know_. Yes, that will do. I am glad that you understand the meaning of the word 'discrete.' I was beginning to become rather concerned that you did not, Master Shieldman… that is to say, Naythan Gaidin."

N'aethan nodded. Though he had absolutely no idea what 'discrete' meant! But he had divined her meaning well enough from the other words. It would not take long for his speech to improve, he always picked up languages fast. Just several more days of the Aes Sedai constantly correcting him and he would speak the Low well indeed! He found himself quite looking forward to speaking it better. He wondered what sort of cultural entertainments these Third Agers had… though things seemed to have gone downhill somewhat, broken rocky terrain, girl Aes Sedai who were very weak in the power (if with the same rather strong personalities he recalled so dearly) and naked Shaido spear-people also…

Ah, the youth was back with a big bundle of grey and brown and green clothing, now these natives would get dressed and the Aes Sedai could cease her blushes… which he found rather endearing in her! Just like Kiam! But this Third Age – the Aes Sedai had told him that was what it was still called – did not seem promising at all… perhaps there _was_ no opera, though of course there would always be theatre, of one sort or another. She had also told him that he had been locked away in the damned Stasis Box for more than three-and-one-half millennia. He was still not sure what to make of that, it seemed like a ridiculously long period and for the time being, he was doing his best to avoid thinking about it. In a way, it was rather as though he had died and been reborn – though with his memories intact, at least.

Strange, there was something rather familiar about the garb the Shaidos were sorting through… quite substantial garments really, he had anticipated loincloths or kilts, perhaps even feathers decorating their hair! But come to think of it, the Shaidos themselves, tall and light-eyed, with fair and reddish hair, cut short, except at the nape... they reminded him strongly of something too… but _what?_ A nagging sensation he had felt, ever since they first appeared…

"Master Shieldman!" The snap was back in the Aes Sedai's voice, she was scowling, her feathery eyebrows drawn down in a sharp 'v'… "I have certain important matters to impart! Perhaps if you could bring yourself to tear your gaze away from the _unclothed females_ for a scant instant, you might better be able to attend to my words, yes?"

N'aethan turned his back on the Shaidos, feeling wounded. _Typical!_ Why, he had not even been looking at the women, at least not any more – it was always the same with the War-Sisters, whatever you damned-well did, you were always in the _wrong_ – it was not fair!

_Allservants!_

* * *

><p>Ellyth frowned at the Shieldman. <em>Did<em> he know what discrete meant? He had looked a little uncertain… though his rudimentary vocabulary seemed to have improved already, in the short time they had been together, the long trek up the valley… She repressed a sigh, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Her boots were better-adapted for riding, she was feeling somewhat footsore…

"Master Shieldman, after I have communicated one or two things to you, I intend to go up to whichever pool of water the Shaido have now _finished_ using, one would hope, and bathe… _alone_… as I am in a sad state with regard to dust and grime. Please wait here until I call for you…" – Ellyth added a certain significance to her voice – "…and _do_ bear in mind what we discussed earlier, concerning discretion."

The Shieldman was looking contrite. Or at least, doing a creditable job of pretending so. Well, perhaps she had been a little hard on him, a man could not help being a man, and the two Aiel women _were_ rather attractive, but for the scar-tissue. You could not exactly blame the fellow for staring at what had, after all, been presented to him on a platter! The redhead, particularly, had a fine, athletic body, she was formed a little like Shrina, though taller… the golden-haired Aielwoman, Ellyth had noted (with a slight scowl) had a large, proud bosom… her _own_ breasts were certainly not so impressive – though Renn's were! – but of course, even had they been, she would have kept them decently cov-

Ellyth flushed a little, recalling the pitching deck of a Sea Folk ship, she and the odd girl from Falme who shared her cabin grinning at each other, shivering, hands lodged beneath their armpits… the _Atha'an Miere_ ignoring them, especially this 'Shrinalla' who they did not seem to like, which she did not understand, for the girl _was_ likeable (if loud!) and clearly had a warm, generous nature. The Sea Folk treated the 'Whitecloak' – as 'Shrina' _kept_ calling her, though not unkindly, saying to call her 'Hunter' back for some reason – respectfully enough, but did not seem to care for any of the _Do Miere A'vron_, for some reason… _Then_, a small cabin-girl had come up to Ellyth and asked her if she wanted her ears pierced! 'I'll do it for her if she does!' Shrina had snapped, scowling, and the cabin-girl had scowled back and swayed away, leaving them to scramble back into their brightly coloured blouses, a gift from the Sailmistress… but _that_ had been different, like a Winternight jest!

Still, quite apart from this one incidence of immodesty that had taken place nearly a decade ago, Ellyth felt that she might even have evinced a trace of hypocrisy, since she _had_ found herself casting a momentary glance at the youth – he had a very pretty rump! – as he trotted away to fetch their distinctive clothing… _cadin'sor_, it was called, she believed. But that was different, of course. The parts of these Aiel that were normally clothed were much _paler_ than the rest of them, certainly… Ellyth shook her head. What was she thinking of? She was getting as bad as _Rashiel!_

The Shieldman was staring at her. Ellyth gathered herself, concentrating on the present. She seated herself on a boulder to rest her weary feet, rubbing at a sore ankle, sitting with her back to the Aiel, who were – thank the Light! – getting dressed, she noted. The Shieldman moved to stand respectfully before her.

"Yes, well… I wish others in the Tower had your discretion, or your seeming good intent, for that matter. Thank-you for killing the Draghkar also, by the way, I neglected to mention it at the time." Ellyth scowled. "We were betrayed. Again. As in Haddon Mirk, possibly Arafel and other places also… we _do_ seem to encounter Shadowspawn and Darkfriends a little too frequently. No-one should have known that my Warder and I were on our way to World's End, but I think that someone, somewhere, _did_. And these soon-to-be dead traitors who have sold their rotten souls to Shai'tan arranged for Shadowspawn to be brought here, by some means… the Shadowspawn that _murdered my Warder_…" (she could feel tears gathering in her eyes again, but felt more angry than sad, much more) "…and would have murdered myself also, had you not… Master Shieldman? Are you _listening_ to me?"

The Shieldman was staring past her, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"Master Shieldman, I am not speaking to you of the _weather!_ These are rather important life-or-death issues, life for us, death for that filthy old hag who I suspect is behind this and seems to have finally made good on her threat to kill Atual, though lacking the gumption to attain that dark end herself, preferring to… to use her vile tools of the Shadow to… to accomplish this… so I would therefore appreciate…"

Ellyth trailed-off. It was no good, the Shieldman was clearly preoccupied. And, by the looks of him, angry. Very angry. As angry as _she_, in fact! He spoke quietly;

"Aes Sedai…"

"Yes? _What?_"

"Why do Shaidos dress themselves with _cadin'sor?_"

For a moment, the Shieldman's normally pleasant features became very grim – and there could be no doubt about it, his disconcerting pupils had equally briefly narrowed, the ovals assuming slit-like dimensions, just like a… what _was_ he?

"If Shaidos have _hurt_ _Da'shain_, taken clothes from_ Aiel_… bad. Very bad. For _them_." His voice was a low growl. Ellyth blinked. Black veils, spears… tall, light eyes and reddish hair… what had he _thought_ they were? _Tinkers?_

"But Master Shieldman… the Shaido _are_ Aiel!"

* * *

><p>After the young Aes Sedai departed, gliding away with one of the saddlebags, N'aethan's gaze moved to the Shaido and for a moment he felt unbearably sad, before recovering himself. It was the first sadness he had experienced in months that was not directly associated with the death of Latra Sedai… unbelievable sorrow (he swiftly blinked back a tear before it could escape) because the <em>Da'shain <em>had broken the Covenant. But there it was.

_Da'shain Aiel_. Tall, green or blue eyes, red or gold hair… they had braided the loose strands back into the long tail now, he noted. Clad in the _cadin'sor _– even the women! – but then, any trace of the familiar ended rather abruptly. _Aiel_. Carrying _weapons_ – short-hafted, sharp-bladed spears that (from the way they held them) they clearly knew how to use. Marred with the scars of a hundred battles that they had somehow managed to survive. Bows on their backs, long knives at their belts...

An image popped into N'aethan's head – old Ledrin, at his desk, slowly opening Father's mail for him… using his short, neatly-trimmed fingernails to awkwardly tear the thick covers of the reports open, even though it took ages that way… because Ledrin could not even bring himself to pick up a letter-knife! (Though young Tro had sometimes sneaked down beforehand and opened all the covers for Ledrin, doing it _his_ way, which took even less time than using the letter-opener, then pretending he did not know what the old _Da'shain _was talking about when he gravely thanked the young Master for his assistance…) So, not even a blunt blade for slicing paper, for _him_. And Ledrin was _Da'shain Aiel_. These Shaidos were… had been… _Aiel_… they wore the _cadin'sor_, did they not? Their hair in the distinctive style that marked them out from all others. At least that was the same. That alone.

Of course, N'aethan knew exactly what must have happened… he thought about it while he walked toward the Shaido.

The World had been Broken – presumably, it all looked as this place did, barren and sere – and the War had never ended, as Father had said that it would not. And clearly, was as close to being lost as it ever had, as in the darkest days of the Two Traitors, or when the Hall itself was razed… but for things to have got so bad that the few remaining Aes Sedai (reduced to just one Warman each, instead of a whole squad) had been forced to order their _Da'shain_ attendants to break the Covenant and take up arms in their defence? He could not imagine anything more compelling than that, to make them do so. It defied belief… but on another level, if a purely objective, cold, unemotional one – it made sense.

The _Da'shain_ were so _brave_ – they feared nothing! N'aethan knew that he was courageous also, or at least that the fear he had often noted in others seemed oddly absent in him – Father's damned Design, again! Or perhaps it was just that fear had always been outweighed by the far more powerful devotion to duty that had been instilled in him from an early age? Even the terror he had felt when fighting the _Gholam_ had been more due to the conviction that it would kill him, causing him to fail in his duty of protecting Latra Sedai. But the _Da'shain_... the way their Field-Medics would venture out onto the battlefield in search of wounded Warmen, with only the ability to run fast to protect them – why, compared with them he was little more than a trembling craven! A mere cowardy-cat!

Certainly, N'aethan had not been the only one to quietly consider that the _Da'shain_ would have made excellent soldiers, under different circumstances. Circumstances that did not involve the Covenant! Though he had kept this to himself of course, since such an idea (in addition to being in extremely poor taste) would have angered the _Aes Sedai_ a great deal!

N'aethan halted his steady pace in front of the _Da'shain _who were not _Da'shain_… they called themselves Shaido, so he decided to think of them as that instead. They could not be _Aiel_ as he understood the word. Not any more. They watched him closely, cautiously, perhaps wondering why he did not seem to be uncomfortable surrounded by them. N'aethan had never been uncomfortable around _Da'shain_ – only everybody else! But never them. Not even now.

Distantly, N'aethan wondered if he might have to fight them. If so, he would try not to injure them too badly. It could be necessary, in order to establish the chain of command… dominance… he flushed. He was actually considering _fighting _some_ Da'shain!_ Latra Sedai would have been so angry with him! As would any Sister…

With this in mind, N'aethan glanced towards the pool to make sure the young Aes Sedai was out of sight… yes, there she was, disappearing into the low stand of trees, back straight, head up. It should not have been possible to limp _gracefully_, but somehow, she managed to! N'aethan smiled proudly.

When he turned back to the Shaido, their one-eyed leader was looking at him curiously. "Why do you smile, Naythan Shieldman?" he asked.

"Why smile?" N'aethan responded. He pointed toward the trees. "I smile because of _her_, Shaido. Because she is tired and stretched so she cannot channel and she has lost her Warman and has come through terrible danger… and because she wear stupid boots!"

The Shaido considered this. N'aethan could see he would have to elaborate.

"I smile with _pride_, because I serve _Aes Sedai!_ Because no matter what may befall her, she will _not_ give up! Because she wear silly, uncomfortable boots that is for riding horses only, but walked all the way here even so, when she could have ridden on my back!" At which, N'aethan produced a very accurate imitation of a neighing horse in the back of his throat! The Shaido blinked, and looked at him suspiciously.

N'aethan still had the sword hanging over his back, the other set of saddlebags that had belonged to He Who Guards the Gate also, and noted that the Shaido were eyeing the blade in a disapproving way, which he thought only fair, since he was looking at their spears with great disapproval also. The young Shaido pointed.

"What is that?" He was indicating the shocklance.

N'aethan's brow furrowed. This was not going to translate very well.

"It is… I think you would say… spear of many lightnings..?"

The Shaido looked suitably impressed. Their leader spoke again.

"If you have a spear, Naythan Shieldman, why, then, do you need the sword?"

"Was told to carry, though not _my_ blade. Even so, prefer to spear… better."

A mutter of discontent rose from the Shaido. By 'spear' he had meant the shocklance, but they had taken him to mean spears in general. _Their_ spears – he had offended them! They might not be _Da'shain_ anymore, and only Shaido, but that was no excuse for rudeness…

"But spear good too," added N'aethan, "Middle Brother always used spear."

The big Shaido – the fellow was almost the size of a Treebrother! – blinked. "Your first-brother carried the spear."

N'aethan was not sure if it was a question, but he treated it as though it were. "Yes. Screaming-spear! Made scary noise when Shadowmen about! Power-wrought, made by wife. Good weapon. Used to kill many Myrddraal, and other things also, things of the Blight."

The Shaido considered this.

"Power-wrought," said the short one, with the symmetrical scars, "how so?"

"Made with One Power by Aes Sedai, of course! Like this sword. Never break, nor need to sharpen." The Shaido nodded thoughtfully. This clearly seemed like a good idea, to them. "Brother used to throw it at foe when too far away to stab – never missed! Even though…" N'aethan trailed-off. Best not to tell them _too_ much about Middle Brother. They might not understand. There were not many who had!

The Shaido leader frowned. "It is not well to cast your spear," he commented, "for it leaves you without weapons." He grinned. "But for your hands!"

N'aethan nodded. This was something _he_ could certainly agree on! Oddly enough, he was starting to warm to these Shaido… despite the Covenant, which he supposed was not really _their_ fault, he felt that he might even have things in common with them. Strange! But he felt the need to say more, in Middle Brother's defence.

"Not ordinary spear, though, like these you use…" he gestured at their weapons – _Aiel_, with _weapons!_ – a little disparagingly. "Spear always _returned_ to his hand. So he could throw again, or do other things to Myrddraal with it, that they would not like!"

N'aethan grinned at the pleasant recollection – Middle Brother amongst the Shadowmen… a wolf in the fold! _Especially_ when he rode on the back of… but that was a less pleasant recollection. N'aethan had always been nice to his Brother's steed – but the Hound of Light had never cared for him, for some reason… it would growl at him and make him feel distinctly nervous, sometimes.

"Was it an enchanted spear that came back to his hand, as in a Gleeman's tale?" asked the young Shaido, excitedly. The others snorted, shaking their heads, but waited on his answer even so.

"En… chanted? Do not know what this means… nor 'glee-man' neither… no, Screaming-spear attached to _chain_ – Middle Brother would _throw_ – crunch! Dead Myrddraal! Then, jerk chain, catch, throw again! More dead Myrddraal! Brother _really_ hated Shadowmen, even more than hated everything else of the Shadow!"

The Shaido nodded approvingly.

"Does your first-brother's wife still make these spears?" asked the redheaded Shaido woman, hopefully. The blonde was just staring, silently.

N'aethan shook his head sadly. "No, she could Forge well but Arietta Sedai dead now, taken and severed in plot of the Shadow... died at _Thakan'dar_. Middle Brother also." He sighed. "May the Hand shelter them both."

The Shaido men glared at the redhead, who scowled back at them.

"It is neither fitting nor seemly, to remind Naythan Shieldman of his woken kin!" snapped One-Eye. N'aethan shrugged.

"Oh, do not mind… you were not to know… happened _long time_ ago."

"What were you doing down in the _Allen'tuadhe_, in the Aes Sedai's cave, Naythan Shieldman?" enquired the one-eyed Shaido, casually. The fellow was definitely fishing for information of some kind, but it could not hurt to tell him?

"Sleeping. Aes Sedai woke me up." A mutter of excitement amongst the Shaido. "Not milky hill or cave, though… _Collam Doon_… it is heartstone…" – no, there was no word in the Low for 'bunker' or 'research-station' it seemed, certainly no applicable term for 'advanced field-test facility!' – "…thing."

There was a momentary silence whilst the Shaido further considered this. N'aethan wondered if he was being _discrete_ enough… well, he was not speaking about himself, after all, or had not been until that last question… they did not have to know that his 'sleep' had lasted longer than a night! Though he rarely needed to sleep, compared with most, and usually did so at brief intervals, during the day. The nights had always been a busy time for him. But this 'discretion' if that was what it was, was difficult, he had always done his best to be honest with people, up until now! Curse it, he was not a damned Intelligence Officer, but a Shieldman! He was unused to prevarication…

Still, if they asked him any more of these questions, N'aethan would just have to direct them to his Aes Sedai. _After_ she had finished bathing, presumably… but then, the young Shaido abruptly and eagerly spoke-up;

"Are you He Who Comes With the Dawn?" blurted the youth, sounding excited. N'aethan watched with surprise as the other Shaido angrily shushed him, beating the young fellow about his head and shoulders with their odd, leathern shield-things.

Strange behaviour! And who in the Pit was this _He Who Comes With the Dawn_, anyway? Father had certainly not troubled to mention _him!_

* * *

><p>The Shaido watched Naythan Shieldman carefully, as the Aes Sedai's strange new Warder looked at them with his unusual eyes for a long moment. He had walked toward them, smiling pleasantly, moving with some of the grace that they themselves employed, though nothing about him was particularly Aiel-like. Apart from anything else, he was too <em>short<em> – even _Chassin_ was taller than he! Though there was something very formidable about him, even so… when he approached, there had been none of the caution they were accustomed to from other wetlanders. Not exactly threateningly, but more like a wolf coming over to inspect some bees whose dying stings would probably not even penetrate his thick fur.

Cohradin, certainly, was unused to such unconcern, back in the Three-fold Land, let alone here – even _Sin'val Vadin_ had been at least _wary_ of him, making him give-up his veil before he could approach the Aes Sedai.

Naythan Shieldman seemed affable, however, answering their questions without quibble – the idea of spears that did not need to be sharpened was of particular interest to them, as they had had to do a great deal of spear-sharpening in the last few days. Currently, the _algai'd'siswai_ all had but one _siswai_ each, since Cohradin had demanded that the Maidens contribute two of their three remaining spears to a Knife Hand, as the _Sovin Nai_ had boldly managed to break all of theirs. They had recovered their spear-heads along with most of the arrows, of course, but there was a shortage of straight wood in this area to make new hafts with. It was a problem.

A bigger problem, however, was foolish young Tevin! Stupidly springing the question that they had all been wondering how to work their way towards in some subtle fashion, so as not to alarm He Who Comes With the Dawn – _if_ it was he…

Cohradin certainly thought that it was.

"I can _see_ that he is not Aiel!" he had hissed to the others, earlier, whilst the Aes Sedai seemed to be berating Naythan Shieldman for some infraction or other, "though I may have but one eye, it does not make me _blind!_ Even so… mayhap the 'ancient blood' does not refer to we? It has been a long time since the Prophecy was spoken, and these things can become confused with each telling – what if the _Car'a'carn_ is, in stead, born of some ancient race of… of funny-eyed wetlanders?"

The Shaido had looked at each other rather doubtfully. But the fact remained that He Who Comes With the Dawn was not said to be as other men – and Naythan Shieldman certainly seemed to fit the bill in _that_ regard! So the question, however incautiously asked, seemed to hang in the air, amidst an atmosphere of expectancy.

Tevin nursed his bruises, sulking. _Someone_ had had to ask! He knew he should have kept silent, but had not been able to restrain himself – could it be that they had finally found the Chief of Chiefs? That they would be permitted to return to Wet Sands Hold with all due honour? And _not_ in fear of the wrath of Sadora the Wise One? The Shaido watched Naythan Shieldman closely. What would his answer be?

Naythan Shieldman stared at them. His eyes were _very_ odd. Then, he spoke, addressing Cohradin in that strange, throaty voice, his face solemn. There was something about his tones that seemed very… _familiar_ to them – was the fellow _imitating_ Cohradin? He _was!_

"I am _not_ He Who Comes With Dawn. I am He Who Shields from Night Shadows. But if I see He Who Comes With Dawn then I will tell him that He Who Has One Eye and Big Scar is looking for him!" At which, Naythan Shieldman abruptly grinned and made a peculiar noise in the back of his throat. A bit like the muted cry of the Sharan striped… Cohradin scowled, then assumed his serious face.

"Is that supposed to be a _jest_, wetlander?" Cohradin demanded, dangerously.

"Yes!" Naythan Shieldman replied, still grinning, shaking his head a little.

Cohradin's eye narrowed alarmingly. Gerom and Chassin noticed his serious face, and sighed. It would be typical if, despite the denial, they _had_ found He Who Comes with the Dawn – and Cohradin foolishly lost his temper with the _Car'a'carn_ and waked him from the Dream! That would start the blood-feud to end _all_ blood-feuds… and then they could _never_ go home. Why, Sadora would be so angry with Cohradin, she would probably come to the wetlands _looking_ for him! But this Naythan Shieldman, exercising his strange sense of humour... he was clearly not scared or wary, or even _cautious_ of them! It was discomforting…

Cohradin blinked at the grinning Naythan Shieldman, then surprised his near-brothers by grinning back. Even after all these years, Cohradin could still surprise them… this was why he was so dangerous in the Dance, his enemy never knew what he was going to do until after he had done it, and neither did he, presumably!

"It is a _good_ joke, Gaidin!" shouted Cohradin exuberantly, slapping Naythan Shieldman on the shoulder. "One Eye? Big Scar? A fine jest, for a humourless wetlander to make!"

"Thank-you… what are these wet lands, of which you speak?"

"You do not know what the wetlands are, Naythan Shieldman?"

"No, I do not know, Shaido."

"The wetlands are where we stand now, unfortunately."

"Thought these lands called 'End-of-the-World.' They does not seem very wet…"

"Oh, but they _are!_" Cohradin hesitated a moment. "I call no lie upon your words, Naythan Shieldman, but… are you _sure_… sure that you are not the Chief-of-Chiefs? You seem like the type, and the Aes Sedai sought for you, after all… we presumed to look for someone raised by others, not of his people, a man who was… _different_. Different than other men."

"_Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ different than _man_, yes, of a certainty! But _not_ He Who Comes With Dawn… honest! What your name again, Shaido?"

"_Cohradin_, of the Wet Sands Shaido."

"So _you_ are a _wetsander!_ 'Cohra-din?' Hmm. Funny name…"

"Cohradin means _Brother of the Dance_," Cohradin stated proudly, sticking his chest out a bit. "The Dance is what we refer to as _battle_," he added, importantly.

"Yes, mayhap… like '_Gaidin_...' but Shaido, _cohra_ not _man's_ dance!"

"What?" Cohradin said, flatly.

"_Cohra-_dance always done by ladies – very pretty ladies!" Cohradin stared as Naythan Shieldman moved his gloved hands expressively over his hips and upper chest, "they wears little silky thing here… and here also… you see? Saw them dance once, eyes near pop out of head! Some of Father's friends. Kept smiling at me while danced… and later… very nice! Never seen done on _battlefield_, although…"

Cohradin's mouth fell open slightly. The Maidens sniggered nastily.

At which, the Aes Sedai's voice called imperiously from the trees.

"Master Shieldman! I can _hear_ you down there, speaking of 'pretty ladies' with the Aielmen! If you are _quite_ finished, perhaps you would attend me?"

Naythan Shieldman sighed, gustily. "Oh, must go now, seems has finished bath – Allservant call, Shieldman run… please to wait here, Shaido… and when night come, if Aes Sedai say we may, we go east and have _fun_ with Shadow-wrought, put fear of Light into them!" He grinned savagely with his pointy teeth, then glanced at their spears again, frowning and looking contrite. He sighed, then bowed formally, putting his gloved hands over his chest. "Honour to Shaido for their sacrifice," he added, sounding regretful.

The Shaido were not entirely sure what Naythan Shieldman meant by this, but reversed their spears and returned his bow, cupped hands held out. If the strange Warder could behave in a mannerly fashion, then so could _they!_ Why did he look at them with _sadness_, though? Wetlanders (if he _was_ a wetlander) could be confusing, true – but no Peddler or Gleeman or even Aes Sedai had ever seemed _this_ confusing!

Again, the Aes Sedai's voice echoed down to them, sounding more strident.

"Master Shieldman? Are you coming or _not?_"

"Forgiveness, Aes Sedai! Coming!" Naythan Shieldman licked his lips nervously and began to back away, hastily adding; "we talk more later… oh, and _verily_, tell you truth! _Car'a'carn_, say you? Not me! Not never heard of him before this! He is not I, would tell you if was…" He made the odd noise in the back of his throat again, blinking his large eyes, "…unless owed to you much coin!" Shaking his head and still chuckling strangely, he turned and trotted away, up to the trees that bordered the pool.

Cohradin stood there, watching Naythan Shieldman go. So, they had _not_ found the Chief of Chiefs after all… and for a time there, he had been sure that they _had_. He supposed that the Aes Sedai had not been seeking He Who Comes With the Dawn after all, but looking for something else… some strange, unknowable, One Power thing that was beyond his ken.

Well, presuming that they were able to leave this place, bounded by the vast pool of water that the wetlanders called 'ocean' and sneak (for they were sneaking Shaido, were they not?) past the Shadow-twisted, since there were too many to wake, unfortunately... then the search would just have to continue, elsewhere. Cohradin sighed. Disappointing, though… but life was full of disappointments. And on top of all of _this_, it seemed that he had a very foolish name!

Tevin snorted and, without a word to the others, went to resume his interrupted hare-hunt. The rest of the Shaido squatted easily, leaning on their spears. Then, as one, they turned to stare at Cohradin; the Maidens accusingly, Gerom and Chassin with more of a righteous 'I told you so' manner.

Cohradin noticed, and scowled.

"_Alright!_ I _admit_ it – I was _wrong!_ Just like I was wrong about the goat and... and all of the other things..."

The Shaido continued to stare, with a note of expectancy.

"You want me to _say it?_ Very well – I have _toh_ to you!"

* * *

><p><strong>Part III : Evening<strong>

The sun was beginning to sink in the west, the shadows lengthening across the pool of water. Seeing that the Shieldman was – _finally!_ – making his way up to the low stand of trees, Ellyth turned away, feeling troubled. There were certain things she would undoubtedly need to ask him about himself, but how best to broach such topics? She was not sure if she even wished to – but she was of the Blue Ajah, and her own wishes were secondary to her Cause. If he was a weapon with which to fight the Last Battle, which might well begin any day now, then she would have to _know_… to know, what exactly he was.

Ellyth's head was beginning to ache more fiercely, so with reluctance, she released the One Power. Embracing the Source had not been so problematic as she had feared, though she had taken care to allow only the barest trickle of _saidar_ to flow into her... but clearly, channelling an actual weave would be beyond her for several days. Were the Shadowspawn to move west in force, she would evidently have to rely further on the Shieldman for her protection, as well as the Aiel also, she supposed. They had served the Aes Sedai once, Cohradin had claimed – perhaps they would do so again? For a time, at least.

As the warm aura of the Power drained from Ellyth, the sharp pain in her temples diminished somewhat, but she regretted it even so. One always felt more vital, more attuned to everything, when holding _saidar_... she deplored its loss, even when the only tangible benefit had been the sharpening of her ears, enabling her to overhear the Shieldman telling the Aielmen about 'very pretty ladies' wearing 'little silky things.' _Really!_ As if they did not have more _serious_ concerns!

Ellyth smoothed the divided skirts of the dark blue silk she was now wearing and, despite the cold, declined to add her shawl embroidered with vines to the ensemble, since the article in question was rather damp, currently hanging to dry from the rope the Aiel had left strung between two trees. After bathing – briefly, since the water in the pool was scarcely any warmer than the chill air – she had used her shawl as a towel. Moving to her saddlebags for fresh clothing, the blue-fringed symbol of her station draped over her shoulders as her sole garment, she had been somewhat reminded of her procession through the Tower after being Raised.

The Test for the Shawl had been truly horrific, she had required a deal of Healing after finally stumbling from the accursed oval _ter'angreal_. Ellyth was certain that _all_ of the Sisters present – even Lelaine Sedai, of the Ajah she intended to choose! – had done their very best to make her fail. _Especially_ Adelorna bloody Bastine, who had once had a Warder killed by Whitecloaks and seemed to hold the young Amadici Accepted personally responsible, though it had happened long before Ellyth was even born! She suspected the frequent and distracting appearances of Witch-finders and Inquisitors of the Hand (whom she had always detested) whilst she had been attempting to cast the hundred required weaves, had been Adelorna's doing. Well, she had won the right to call herself Aes Sedai, even so.

Then, yet weary from a sleepless night of 'quiet contemplation,' the weaves from the Oath Rod still making her skin smart... the walk to receive the kiss of welcome from the assembled Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah. A proud moment – but embarrassing, also! Curse Rafela for seeming to suggest it was a standing tradition for a newly-raised Sister to proceed to the quarters of her chosen Ajah clad only in her Shawl and the Light! Ellyth had not realised it was a matter of choice rather than obligation, certainly… Shrina (Raised the week before) had had _no right _to linger outside the quarters of the Green Ajah as she passed, grinning and cat-calling! That bloody girl had a sense of humour as subtle as a rock-fall!

As she draped the fancloth cloak over her shoulders once more, Ellyth's dull head-ache began to ease somewhat, though a hollow feeling reminded her that she had not eaten all day, and would not be likely to, either. The provisions she and Atual had brought to World's End had been all-but used up a week since and they had been reduced to what little they could hunt, as well as the emergency dried-fruit trail-rations each had carried.

Atual… at least she could think of his name now without an embarrassing emotional reaction that must render her weak in the eyes of others… she had wept again, whilst bathing, her tears merging with the water in which she was immersed. Would it ever ease? Well, it was early days yet. She would see.

The Shieldman appeared, drifting soundlessly through the scrub. He paused before her, and bowed low. He glanced at Ellyth's discarded riding-boots, then at her feet, now clad in slippers – scarcely any more practical for walking, but more comfortable, at least. Once again, a gloved hand moved to one of the square pouches in the side of his belt.

"Need salve, Aes Sedai?" the Shieldman enquired, "if have…" he squinted, seemingly trying to recall a word... "blusters?"

"_Blisters_. I thank you, Master Shieldman, perhaps I shall avail myself of this opportunity later, if further walking is required." Ellyth touched the strange bandage that still adhered to her cheek. In the absence of another Sister to give her Healing, she supposed that she would be left with a scar, a prospect that did not please her. She was not Ebou Dari!

"The Shadowspawn have not come any closer?" Ellyth enquired, though presumably he would have told her if they had.

The Shieldman patted his chest over where he wore the Shield-_ter'angreal_ and shook his head. "Still distant, Aes Sedai. I will go and look at them later, with Aes Sedai's permission? If Shadow-wrought think to approach, I will... give them pause."

"Well, please be careful if you do so." Ellyth was not sure what he meant by 'pause' but assumed that whatever he did, it would be something that the Spawn of the Shadow would not care for, so all to the good. She indicated the secluded pool. "If you wish to bathe also, you may, though be quick – I shall wait with the Aiel whilst you do."

The Shieldman winced slightly at the word 'Aiel' Ellyth noted – when she had told him what they were, what they _obviously_ were, for a moment he had looked as shocked as _she_ had when they first came running out of the bushes, bare as babes! But then, his features had assumed extreme… sadness. Dejection, even, as though receiving the worst news possible. But why? Nothing else about this world he found himself in had seemed to trouble him in any way – he had taken the news of the more than three thousand years with remarkable equanimity, she thought. So why, then, had he been so shaken by the _Aiel_, of all things? Had there been Aiel in the Age of Legends? Perhaps that was when they had served the Aes Sedai, as they claimed. She would have to find out… and this was not _all_ she would have to find out.

The Shieldman glanced at the water and shook his head, somewhat fastidiously, Ellyth thought. "Do not like _cold_ water, Aes Sedai," he muttered, "had bath yesterday – many thousand years ago, but still yesterday!"

Ellyth shrugged, and examined his garb critically. "I think it would be prudent for you to wear the garments of these times, so as to attract less notice…" She indicated the saddlebags he carried. "Some of the clothes therein should fit, though you may need to roll up the sleeves and legs a little…"

The Shieldman's enthusiasm at this suggestion surprised Ellyth - he nodded and immediately doffed his fancloth and belt, kneeling and opening the saddlebags. He grinned like a small boy as he began to root out shirts and coats. "Like costume in play!" he commented cheerfully, selecting a pair of dark trews and rising, removing the Shield-_ter'angreal_ and slipping his odd shimmering garment off one wide shoulder, then the other. There was a large, blue tattoo on the left side of his broad chest.

Ellyth turned her back hastily as the Shieldman immediately set about getting changed, though not quite hastily enough, since the strange one-piece garment was down around his booted feet in an instant… he wore rather odd smallclothes, she could not help but note, made of some black, shiny substance, fitting snugly about his thickly-muscled waist and cut off at the tops of his thighs, which were wide and powerful-looking… his body was not as _hairy_ as that of most men, by the looks of it… she blushed. The fellow clearly had as little conception of modesty as the Aiel!

When she thought it was safe to, Ellyth glanced over her shoulder, frowning. The Shieldman was in less a state of undress now, he had not yet laced-up the linen shirt he had chosen, but at least his lower half was no longer bare. He was leaning down, rolling up the legs of the trews around his ankles, as they were too long for him. Atual had been a good head taller than he… Ellyth sighed.

The Shieldman noticed the sound and glanced up at her with polite curiosity. "Forgiveness, but you are still sad, Aes Sedai? Because of Warderman?"

"_Warder_. Yes, the severance of the bond affects me yet. It will pass in time."

The Shieldman straightened, tucking in his shirt, though it was still unlaced and fell open. There, etched into the skin over his heart, something that looked like an inverted blue triangle, tiny circles at each point. What was it? He spoke without looking at her, an odd sense of delicacy to his words. "You should take as much time to mourn as need, Aes Sedai. No more and no less. It is honourable to do so, there is no shame in tears." He looked up, smiling. "Proud to wear costume… clothes… of your _Warder_. Of He Who Guards the Gate. Will try to serve you as well as he."

Ellyth tried not to stare too obviously at the blue tattoo, though she had never seen anything quite like it, it was obviously not a decoration of ink such as the _Atha'an Miere_ sported, it seemed part of his skin somehow, shimmering faintly. And the _shade_ of blue – it was the exact hue as the fringe on her shawl, she noted. Ellyth did not believe in omens as such, but found this oddly reassuring, even so.

"Yes, well… thank you for your consideration… and your understanding, also." He had laced the shirt with some difficulty, but now, was having trouble with the olive green coat he had chosen. "Here, let me help you with that." Her nimble fingers swiftly did-up the brass buttons that he had fumbled with. Why did he not remove his thick, metal-studded gauntlets?

"Strange garments, Aes Sedai. Old-fashioned!"

"If you like. Though I believe that _you_ are the one with a claim to that title, since you come from the Age of Legends, yes?"

The Shieldman looked confused. "What is age of legends, Aes Sedai?"

"The Second Age, of course! The time in which you… went to sleep."

"Oh, Age of Wonders! _Utopia_... it ended when War began, Aes Sedai, or maybe even before, during the fall into Shadow, Father say... Shieldman not even born then! Born in the Light at the beginning of _this_ Age, was I!"

Ellyth eyed him. The Shieldman eyed her back. "Then I suppose that we are _both_ of the Third Age," she murmured, "though that may well be ending soon, also."

"Soon? Has Dragon been reborn yet, Aes Sedai?"

"He has indeed… at least, I would presume so. A tall, redheaded youth, if such visions are to be believed… what do you know of this? Of the Dragon?"

"Father told to me, Aes Sedai. Rebirth of Dragon would herald end of Age… _Tarmon Gai'don_. And I would be there, would be needed. He said so!"

"It would seem that your father was a wise man." The Shieldman nodded, looking pleased. Ellyth took a step back, though could not restrain herself from pulling his coat a little straighter, beforehand. She examined him critically. "You look well in those clothes, Master Shieldman. Less out-of-the-ordinary, certainly."

The Shieldman grinned and struck a pose, looking a little like a Bard or a Gleeman for a moment. He re-attached the Shield-_ter'angreal_ to the front of the coat, over his heart since the buttons precluded a more central position, before sweeping his fancloth garment back over his head. Well, he was never going to look _that_ ordinary… at least his boots did not seem entirely out of place, though that black cloth wound about his closely-cropped skull certainly did. She should try to find him some sort of a _hat_, when they left World's End and started back to civilisation... were they able to. Numerous fists of Trollocs led by Myrddraal lay in their path, after all. She hoped Eradore at least, would escape them... the thought of her graceful mare ending up in a Shadowspawn cauldron, butchered like poor Caba... well, if they were to die, they would do so fighting, just as Atual undoubtedly had.

With this in mind, Ellyth stooped and picked up the sheathed, Power-wrought blade that lay beside the saddle-bags, looking at it sadly. It would have been fitting to leave it in the cairn marking Atual's grave, but she had not wanted the vile Shadowspawn, or some filthy Darkfriend skulking at their heels, to steal it. She presented the sword to the Shieldman, who flinched, looking startled.

"Though if you are to wear Atual's garb, you may as well honour him by wearing his sword also…" Ellyth suggested.

The Shieldman's mouth fell open, his strange eyes widening. He raised his gloved hands, which trembled slightly. He blinked rapidly several times, his oddly-hued eyes seeming to glisten a little. Had she done something wrong? Was he… _crying?_ He was!

"You are… _sure_, Aes Sedai? I may wear the blade?" His already husky voice choked as he whispered these words, sounding as though he did not quite believe it…

"Well, yes. Of course. _I_ do not know how to use it and the Aiel would certainly not be interested! Is… is something _wrong_, Master Shieldman?"

"_Nothing_ wrong! Proudest moment of life, Aes Sedai!" He blinked back some tears, then touched his fancloth-swathed chest, over the portion where he kept his Shield-_ter'angreal_. "Well, _second_ proudest, mayhap…" With alarming speed, he took the proffered sword – as though fearful she would change her mind! – swept it neatly out of the scabbard and knelt at her feet, the blade reversed, hilt extended towards her. "_Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ pledges sword-service to Aes Sedai, from now 'til death!" he promised, his voice cracking. He spoilt the effect somewhat by sniffing, and rubbing at his nose.

Ellyth hesitated. What was she supposed to do? Touch the hilt? Say something? _Bond_ him? But then, he was standing again, the bared blade tucked under one arm, awkwardly buckling the scabbard to his belt with thick-fingered hands, hampered by the heavy gauntlets he wore. He was still blinking away tears – of _joy_, presumably! – and made further snuffling sounds as he did so.

"You might find that easier were you to remove your gloves," Ellyth suggested, evenly.

The Shieldman looked at her. "Do not mind," he commented. And resumed fiddling with the buckles.

He was _definitely_ hiding something, under those gloves... an injury or burns, perhaps. Perhaps not.

"I am presuming that you _know_ how to use a sword, Master Shieldman?"

The Shieldman grinned, and sheathed the blade with a deft movement. He went over to a twisted tree above the pool, plucking a small crab-apple from it, before returning to stand before her, resting a gloved hand on the hilt. He then tossed the apple over his shoulder, high into the air. Behind him, the crab-apple reached the top of its arc and began to descend. He cocked his head, listening. Then, the ancient, power-wrought blade hissed from the scabbard and the Shieldman seemed to blur as he spun, the sword sweeping upwards to neatly bisect the descending apple. With the same alarming speed, he somersaulted between the two pieces as they flew apart, the blade flicking out to quarter one of the halves before he landed, turning, dropping to one knee and slicing the remaining segment in two before it could hit the ground.

It was an impressive display. Ellyth might not have loitered in the vicinity of the Tower practice-yard as much as Shrina, but she did not think she had ever seen Atual, or any other Warder for that matter, move so fast, with such precision. The Shieldman rose and turned to face her, returning the blade to its sheath. He bowed formally, one hand on the hilt, the other over his heart.

"Have earned Heron, Aes Sedai, long time ago," he explained, "and can be dangerous to more than just apples, I so assure you!"

"I believe that you can... you are certainly very dangerous to Shadowspawn… much more dangerous than they, as you claimed." Ellyth eyed him closely, spoke in casual tones that certainly did not reflect her true feelings. "Tell me, Master Shieldman, how did you kill the Myrddraal?" He blinked uncertainly, then sighed.

"With… weapons, Aes Sedai." The Shieldman held up his large hands, still covered by the gauntlets, shirt and coat sleeves rolled partway up his thick forearms. He curled his fingers slightly. "Weapons I was... born with."

"Oh…"

"You would like to see?"

The Shieldman made as though to remove his gauntlets, if with slow reluctance, but paused when Ellyth shook her head. It was not as though she did not wish to know, exactly, but it had been a very trying day, the headache was still there, throbbing away… and she was not sure how much more she could take. Besides, there was that marked reticence. She recalled how when she first saw him, sitting upright in the _ter'angreal_ box – had it only been that morning? – he had seemed to make a swift, surreptitious movement. Pulling on his gloves, before she could see his hands, she realised now. He clearly did not wish for her to see these... weapons. So, she would respect his wishes. For the time being.

"I think, Master Shieldman, that perhaps you have certain differences from other men… differences that make you a man who is also a weapon, yes?"

The Shieldman did not answer, just stood in that rigid pose, legs braced apart, one gloved hand at his side, the other resting on the sword-hilt... but the habitual placidity faded from his features, replaced with something almost like... astonishment. Had she offended him?

"Forgive me if I have caused offence by referring to you as a 'weapon' but..." well, Ellyth supposed he had a right to know, since the vision had been about _him_, after all; "you see, I was given certain information about you... rather vague, but undoubtedly true... there is a very special girl from Baerlon by the name of Elmin-"

"No-one ever called me _that_ before!" Undoubtedly, he _was_ perturbed.

"I was told that you were a weapon who was also a-"

"No, not that!" A second interruption! Ellyth opened her mouth angrily, but the Shieldman forestalled any objection, practically bouncing on his toes with his eagerness to correct her! "_Am_ a weapon, made to destroy Shadow-wrought, particularly the _Gholamin_ – the _other_ thing you call me, mean I!"

_What in the Wheel is a 'golamin?'_

"What is a-?"

"Forgiveness, Aes Sedai, but... never called _that_ to my face before!" The Shieldman blinked, considering. "Except Kiam Sedai sometimes, when she did not call me 'Lightborn' but just when she was saying '_stupid bloody man!_' of some Warman Officer she did not like, and then because _he_ was not there, she would glare at _me_ instead! Like Warman _my_ Brother! Not! Only ever had two Brothers and _they_ were not men either, though they at least were _more_ than man while _I_-"

"You are _babbling_, Master Shieldman! I did not think you the type to be nervous. Compose yourself... and kindly tell me what you are."

The Shieldman composed himself with the same disconcerting rapidity he altered his other emotions. He regarded her solemnly for a moment. "You came to wake me, Aes Sedai, true… but you do not know what I am."

It was clearly not a question, but Ellyth chose to treat it as one.

"I do not. Beyond the fact that you are, in some ways at least, a weapon against the Shadow…" She sighed. "Which you have yourself confirmed, I suppose. But the question remains... what manner of man _are_ you, Naythan Shieldman?"

The Shieldman shook his head slowly. "Not _man_, Aes Sedai." He grinned briefly. "This is why it amuse me, to name myself 'Shieldman' which is _rank_ I was given, like 'Warman,' " he confided, before his demeanour became solemn again. He considered a moment, then crouched and scratched in the dirt with a stick. A circle… then, a double-circle, like a slim figure-eight… and then, a triangle, with loops at each point. The same symbol etched into the skin over his heart. He put a hand on his chest, touching his Shield, glanced up at her enquiringly.

"You saw my Light-mark, Aes Sedai?"

"The blue tattoo? I… did. You gave me scant opportunity to _avoid_ seeing it! Incidentally, Master Shieldman, I should prefer it were you to _not_ remove your clothing in front of me – whatever immodest behaviour was customary in _your_ day, in _mine_ there _are_ certain proprieties to be observed!"

"Yes Aes Sedai. Forgiveness Aes Sedai." He grinned and lowered his eyes, softly muttering something in the Old Tongue that sounded like '_sar isain sene Kiam Sedai!_' Ellyth's eyes narrowed, but the Shieldman did not seem to notice, returning his attention to the shapes scratched into the sand. He pointed the stick at the circle.

"In the… I do not know what you would say, Father called it the 'Root-Speech…' _very_ old tongue, older than the High, long-dead even in his day… in this speech, this is how you write _number_, this is _wan_." The stick moved to tap the double-circle. "This; _taw_." He indicated the triangle, seeming to hesitate a moment. "And this… this is _tro_."

Ellyth blinked. "One, two, three… I see. So, in this ancient script, you have the _third_ number marked on your chest, yes?"

"_Yes!_ Aes Sedai. Light-mark, not given to all, to Lightborn only! I was… am… thirdborn in the Light, my Brothers... firstborn, secondborn… 'Tro' was my birth-name." He scowled slightly, eyes narrowing. "_Never_ liked, being called after _number_, was glad when received another name. Proud." He ran a loving hand over the hilt at his belt, smiling down at the Power-wrought blade. "Proud to wear sword, too. And have Shield. But even better to have _real_ name. Like person, not _thing_."

"_Naythan_. He Who Shields…"

"…from the Shadows of the Night." He nodded, pridefully, then sighed, seeming hesitant. "Aes Sedai… do you know what is… a _chu'mira?_"

"I do not."

"Oh…" The Shieldman glanced up at Ellyth uncertainly for a moment, then swiftly, as though to get it over with, slipped off the black headband and turned his head from side to side, slow and reluctant. Showing her his ears.

Which were oddly elongated, resting flatly against his skull, rising to blunt points, decorated with abbreviated tufts of white hair, matching that which thinly covered his scalp. Ellyth could not help but stare… it was clearly not a deformity of some kind, but the ears, along with the eyes… there was something about the Shieldman that was clearly not human. He was watching her cautiously with those large eyes, eyes that for the first time, she realised, were more akin to those of a beast than a man.

"I think I understand, now… what a 'chumira' might be," Ellyth stated, doing her best to remain serene. She found herself thinking of the sigil of House Desiama. A silver wildcat. With blue eyes, usually inlaid sapphires. The Will of the Pattern? But she almost imagined that behind it, she could hear the Dark One's laughter.

The Shieldman nodded. "I think that you do. It is a forbidden thing, Aes Sedai, _not_ like when the Masters of the _Collam Avende_ made the _Nym_ but more like what evil old Grandf- that is to say, like what _Aginor_," – he grimaced with distaste as he spoke the name of one of the Forsaken – "what Ishar Morrad Chuain (may he burn in the Pit!) did, when he made the… the Beastmen. The _Trollocs_." He sighed, and glanced up at her, seeming to shiver a little. "Shadow-wrought... I _hate_ them, I fight and kill them, what I was made to do, but... I am _like_ them, at least a little, Aes Sedai. _Man?_ No. Not human, not _all_ at least… I am... _less_ than that."

Ellyth could tell when someone was ashamed and was a more than accurate judge of whether or not they _ought_ to be. In her estimation, the Shieldman certainly had no cause for shame. Even so, she surprised herself by going to kneel in front of him, since he was still crouching before the ancient numerals in the dust, as though he did not intend to rise, as though he felt he belonged down there… and surprised herself further when she ran a finger over one of his pointed ears, which twitched a little. His eyes – which were really rather beautiful, she considered, if in a disconcerting way – widened.

"There is nothing remotely objectionable about your ears. A little like those of an Ogier, though not near so hairy, fortunately. You are certainly _no_ Trolloc, Naythan Shieldman, not in any way that I can see, and regardless of your heritage, should not think of yourself so, as it does both you and your father a disservice. You are quite evidently a good and decent servant of the Light and have _nothing_ in common with such as they. In fact, despite certain… singularities of appearance and ability, you are, quite clearly, a man."

The Shieldman gaped.

Ellyth rose, smoothing her skirts, stood with hands on hips, looking down at the Shieldman. She smiled thinly. "Would you care to know _why?_"

"Wh- why, Aes Sedai?" His cobalt-blue eyes were wide with shock.

"Because only a _man_ could manage to be quite so _infuriating_ as you have been, on occasion! _That_ is why!"

The Shieldman stared for a moment, then smiled uncertainly as he slowly pulled the black band back on, over his strange ears, covering them up with every sign of relief. "Aes Sedai… is making _jest?_" he wondered.

"If you need to _ask_, then presumably, it was not a very _good_ jest, yes?"

"Yes… I mean, no… I…" The Shieldman grinned, and opted for saying, "Honour to Serve, Aes Sedai," as he rose and bowed to Ellyth yet again – a prevarication if she had ever seen one! Still, it was nice to see that the boot was on the other foot for a change – she had clearly just managed to confuse _him_, instead of the other way around! Though oddly, she felt that she was beginning to almost... _understand_ him.

"This was all the doing of your father," Ellyth speculated.

The Shieldman nodded. "Father… he was not _my_ father, like with people who have mother and father… He was Father because he _created_ me, my Brothers also… he _made_ us… though said that there was some of his essence in us, as well as what he took from _Da'shain_ woman who wished to help him, wanted to serve the Light... though he did not know I knew this… do you know what _ovum_ is, Aes Sedai?"

"I do not…"

"Me neither! Shieldman only a… 'constructed-one' you might say… made for to war on Shadow, but not smart, like Father! _He_ was like the Creator, though for Lightborn only! There were those who did not like him, Aes Sedai of Big Hall and others, said Father was evil and... blas-famous?"

"_Blasphemous_?"

"Yes, _that_, said Father thought that he _was_ Creator… but Middle Brother used to say to me that this is wrong, that Father thought he was _better_ than the Creator! Because he did not just create us and then leave to own devices, because he… he _interfered!_"

"As a good parent should."

"Yes, I suppose..." There was an almost companionable silence for a moment, then the Shieldman blinked and, with a note of apology, added; "...Aes Sedai."

Ellyth sighed. "I think that you might dispense with the constant Aes Sedai-ing, since we seem to know each other a little better now, Master Sh- that is to say, Naythan Gaidin."

Odd that the First Oath permitted her to use this honorific, as it had before, for all that he was not a Warder in the strictest sense. But he had obviously served the Aes Sedai much as they did, and she could not help but think of him as one of their number. If with a markedly different demeanour than the average Gaidin of the White Tower, certainly! But clearly, his duties long ago had been much akin to those of the Gaidin... why, as far as she could tell, he appeared to have been the _first_ Warder, though long before the bond had ever been created!

"If you say so, then I obey, uh..." Naythan was clearly unsure what to call her.

"Ellythia Sedai." His eyes widened.

"Cannot use _name_, Aes Sedai! Only just _met!_ Not proper, so to do!"

"They were certainly overtly formal in your time, were they not?"

"Not sure what is 'overtly' but knew Kiam Sedai for years before she let me call her by birth-name, to her face! Only called her 'Kiam' when she was still just Apprentice... even though she always called me 'Lightborn' back..."

"Who is this 'Kiam Sedai' whom you keep mentioning? Who I appear to _remind_ you of?" Ellyth's meagre knowledge of the Old Tongue had been equal to _that_ translation, at least!

"Kiam Lopiang, very powerful Aes Sedai. Very arrogant, also!" The Shieldman muttered something that sounded like '_tcheran_' though Ellyth had no idea what that word meant. "You have heard of?"

"Possibly... though I would have to ask R- ask a friend, to be sure. Lopiang... the name _is_ familiar to me, from the _very_ early histories... I believe that she may have been one of the Sisters who founded the White Tower, perhaps the White Ajah also, if I recall correctly."

The Shieldman grinned. "Kiam Sedai once told me that _white_ was her favourite colour, Aes Sed- ulp!" He blinked and looked apologetic. Ellyth frowned.

"Yes, well, given that if you call me 'Aes Sedai' _once more_ I shall no-doubt go mad as a male channeller and set you aflame, _stilling_ myself in the process... might I suggest that you use the honorific 'Mistress' since the prospect of saying my name seems to fill you with horror! I should like that in any event, as it is what... what dear Atual always called me."

Ellyth sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. For half a decade, ever since she had been Raised, Atual had been there, her strong right arm. She could not even recall the amount of times her Warder had saved her life, put himself between her and danger without hesitation. He had seemed... indestructible. A world without him boded as an impossibility.

The Shieldman was looking at her with commiseration, but also... she thought that she could detect a certain fellow-feeling, even empathy. "I lost someone also... _Mistress_," he confided, sadly. "Feel bad whenever I think of her."

"It is the very worst feeling that there is, Naythan Gaidin. Who was she?"

The Shieldman – Naythan – smiled sadly. For a moment, his large, strange eyes seemed to glisten a little, before he blinked them rapidly.

"Who? She was…" He sighed.

"You do not have to tell me if it pains you, Naythan."

Ellyth blinked, realising that this was the first time she had used his name _without_ the Gaidin, at least. Atual had served her nearly a year before she did _that!_ His name... _her_ version of it at least, she could not seem to pronounce it the way _he_ did, with that odd vowel sound… Well, 'Master Shieldman' _was_ a bit of a mouthful, after all...

"Oh, do not mind… it pains me, true, but it is well to speak of those who have gone into the Light, to remember them… she was good person, Latra Sedai. Wise, like Father. But also... kind... warm... _not_ like Father!" He sighed again, then grinned. "Not disloyal to Father's memory, am I! _Loved_ Father, treated me, my Brothers, like we _were_ his Sons, thought it important to, right from the start. Father _always_ did his best, he could not help being way he was... being _Father!_ But Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai... loved her too. Will ever remember her. Always honour her memory..."

_Tro stood at the very top of the Keystone, three-hundred spans above the sprawling encampment below. The vast fortress loomed over the domes and barracks and blockhouses, an artificial mountain. On a clear day, from up here you could see the jagged silhouettes of the Mountains of Dhoom in the far distance... but it was not a clear day. Tro had discarded one of the crutches, but still felt the need to use the other while he waited. The wind was strong this high up, riffling his long, white hair about his strange eyes, as he stared at nothing in particular, whilst waiting for Latra Sedai's armoured Hover-sho to return from the south. From Paaran Disen. _

_Tro had never been there, and did not particularly wish to go, since the Capital (despite having many places of interest) was presumably full of Citizens who would stare at him. It was better here, in the camps. He supposed. He did not have a particularly wide experience of the world, or what was left of it after the War – apart from the Collam Aman, where he had been born, and later, the Collam Doon, the Northborder was all he had ever known. _

_Tro had been awaiting Latra Sedai's return all morning, but did not mind, the air up here was clean, there were few if any people about and he had no duties as such – his sole duty was to protect the Tamyrlin from harm, and he was anxious to resume it. So, while he waited, he wondered… or perhaps 'worried' better described it… what was his _name_, now?_

_Tro sighed. It was confusing, and he did not like to be confused. He preferred things to be simple, like in battle, where you either killed or got killed. Not like this confusion over who (or what) he was, now. The Warmen were all calling him 'Gholam Killer' as were those of their Officers who had not begun the practice of referring to him as Aethan'allein, Shieldman… this last was not too bad a name, but though he might be a Shield, he was certainly no man! He was a Construct, Father had said so on the day he first told him what he was. So had Someshta, for that matter, and who better than _he_ to know? Besides, 'Shieldman' did not really seem like a name, it was more of a rank._

_The War-Sisters who were not also calling him 'Aethan'allein' were still naming him 'Tro' which he couldn't help thinking of himself as, even though he had never cared for his stupid number-name. The Da'shain were all referring to him as 'He Who Shields us from the Night Shadows' which was taking them a long time to say… they, having the fabled 'patience of an Aiel,' did not seem to mind, but _he_ was starting to! As for the Ogier soldiers of the garrison... well, they were continuing to call him what they had always called him, and he still had no idea what it even meant! It was presumably politer than the various names the humans had come up with for him over the years, as the Treebrothers were very mannerly, but this provided small comfort. _

_What it came down to was that Tro was not entirely certain what his name was anymore. In short, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor was feeling more than a little confused about what he was supposed to be called! It was disconcerting, to be between names... Oddly, the only person in the entire garrison who was continuing as before, his sole source of stability, name-wise, was Vora Sedai's Apprentice, Kiam, who _still_ hated him and was stubbornly persisting with a resolute insistence on calling him-_

_"Lightborn!"_

_Tro jumped, looked above, and scowled. It was not often he was taken by surprise. He had not noticed Kiam up there – she was very difficult to see, admittedly, but that was no excuse. He would not have missed her scent, faint though it was in the strong wind, but had been preoccupied. With wondering who he was._

"_Hello down there, Lightborn! Are you waiting for your mummy?"_

_Tro kept silent, lowered his gaze and stared straight ahead, refusing to answer. Apprentice Kiam persisted;_

_"What is the matter? Has... _something_ got a hold of your tongue? Hmm?"_

_Ignoring her would clearly not answer, so Tro eyed Apprentice Kiam with disfavour, having to crane his neck a little to do so. Behind Kiam, a large cargo-jumper rose from one of the auxiliary pads, but they were standing (well, _he_ was) on the main pad which had been kept clear, since the personal flight of Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai, Shadar Nor, Tamyrlin of the Grand Hall of Servants, was expected to arrive shortly. _

_Tro was still feeling somewhat dizzy, having to lean on the crutch a little, though not as much as he had a week before, when he left the infirmary-dome, got chanted at by the Warmen and was given a new title by Vora Aes Sedai…_

_"Lightborn..?"_

_"You are making my neck hurt, and it is one of the only parts of me yet uninjured! Why do you not just stand on the pad down here, or swoop off to somewhere else, Kiam Apprentice?"_

_"Ooh! The Lightborn is touchy this morning! Hasn't had his bowl of milk yet, I would expect…"_

_"Go play with some pigeons," Tro muttered, under his breath. He did not even _like_ milk! Well, not _that_ much... Always with the stupid gibes, just because… he shook his head and scowled again, though he knew it made his pupils go all slitty. _

_"What was that, Lightborn? Your mumbling is difficult to understand."_

_"Nothing, Kiam Apprentice."_

_Tro always respectfully called Kiam that, though she was not yet Raised, so he could have got away with simply 'prentice-Lopiang' or just plain 'Apprentice.' But then, Kiam was the strongest Initiate in a century, and had an absurd amount of Talents… He would see the shining, seven-layered corona around the bright beacon that was her Power, if he cared to squint (though that made his eyes look even stranger!) He did not care to, however. Seven Talents… one of which was an incredibly _rare_ Talent. _

"_It is very distracting when you float up there like that, saying silly things to me," Tro complained further, "and I do not drink my milk from a bowl, but a cup!"_

_Kiam smirked and drifted downwards, her small, bare feet settling onto the surface of the landing pad. She was wearing one of those silly fancloth gowns that no other Sister or Apprentice wore, the cowl raised, a pale, disembodied face seeming to float disconcertingly against the sky. Though they had no actual uniform, of course, most of the War-Sisters wore practical garb when in combat, best suited to their requirements – robes and tabards of shattercloth were not unheard of. But Kiam took it further, actually aping the Warmen with her preference for fancloth! All of her gowns and robes were made out of the stuff, as well as her leggings, even! She _did_ look odd – when you could even see her! _

_The other War-Sisters did not approve, but Vora Aes Sedai found it amusing – she always let her gifted Apprentice do whatever she wanted, within reason, or sometimes even without it. Kiam Lopiang was a prodigy, after all. And she _knew_ it! There was merely arrogant – and then there was Kiam! But the fancloth garments… did she make them herself, out of old battle-capes? He should ask her, perhaps, repay her for the insult. Kiam moved to stand beside him, eyed Tro with mock innocence._

_"Am I distracting you, Lightborn? Distracting the little boy who is waiting for his mummy to return?" Tro had ignored it the first time, but it was insulting! Not to him, he did not care, but to Latra Sedai!_

_"I did not have a mummy, Kiam Apprentice," Tro snapped, "I mean, a mother… you _know_ that!"_

_Kiam just stood there, her pale hands folded in front of her, the soldier's angreal-brooch pinned to her left breast in the shape of the white tooth, curling downwards, though usually Apprentices were not issued with them. Kiam was a special case, however. She smirked again._

_"I stand corrected, Lightborn." _

_"Yes, you do! Tell me, Kiam Apprentice, do you make your clothes out of-"_

_"Old battle capes? I have heard that one already, Lightborn, hardly original. I commission them myself, from a couturier in Tzora, if you must know... and before you ask, as various of my fellow Apprentices _also_ boringly have, my undergarments are certainly _not_ made out of fancloth!"_

_Tro gaped, scandalised. "Kiam Apprentice, I would never ask that of you!"_

_Kiam sniffed, and disparagingly eyed the Warman-scout uniform Tro was now wearing. He had the right to wear it, the General himself had said so, even though he was something called a 'Shieldman' instead, apparently._

_"Though it would seem I am not the only one to impersonate a Warman."_

_"I am not a Warman! I am a Shieldman, now! Vora Aes Sedai said so!"_

_"Oh? Well, fair enough, I suppose, that you wear the cadin'gai. But a Shieldman? And I thought that you were a guard-dog?"_

_This truly incensed Tro. He had never been able to stand dogs, for some reason that he did not wish to investigate too closely. "_Dog?_" he spluttered, "_not_ a drooling, unhygienic, smelly dog! Though you are half-correct in that I _am_ a guard, who guards Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai – guards the Tamyrlin from stupid Grey Men and nasty Myrddraal and… and other things besides!" He did not wish to mention the Gholam… he was still having nightmares about it, ill dreams in which it won the fight and… and while he lay there dying, he had to watch while it killed the… no, it was too horrible to contemplate._

_Kiam nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose that you _do_ protect the Tamyrlin very well from the monsters that lurk in the night…" Kiam hesitated. (was she going to call him Sin'aethan Shadar Cor? Tro knew that it was a bit of a mouthful, but it would be fine indeed if still-only-an-Apprentice Kiam were to call him-) "…Lightborn." _

_Tro sighed, still trying not to think of that innocuous, blank-eyed face, smiling at him from its place of concealment… the monster that had been hiding, without much originality, where monsters are often said to hide. Who would have thought that the Gholam should have looked so… ordinary?_

_"It is well that you saved our War-leader from the Shadow's... spawn." Something about Kiam's hesitation suggested that she still considered him little different from that which he fought. Well, perhaps he was not – but if one was born a monster, it was well to at least be a monster that served the Light. Middle Brother had told him that, with one of his rare smiles. "And took grievous injuries in so doing. You are looking a little less damaged today, incidentally... your convalescence almost complete." Kiam smiled coldly. "I hope that you enjoyed the chu-fruit, Lightborn."_

_Tro blinked his large eyes. The grapes and apples and other things had been from Latra Sedai, but she had denied all knowledge of the rare, blue chu-fruit, which neither of them had imagined was even being cultivated anymore... the chu plantations were all thought to have been destroyed in the War. So it was Kiam who had sent the mystery-fruit! Where had she even found it? That was nice of her, though. Even if she _was_ still calling him 'Lightborn' to his face! _

"_Thank you for the chu-fruit, Kiam Apprentice. It was very nice… fruit."_

"_Yes, well, you need to get your strength back, Lightborn. There being no horse-meat available." Damn! Was she ever going to forget about that? Females! They never forgot a Light-damned thing! _

_Tro well-remembered when Kiam revealed that she did not like him, by shouting the words 'I hate you!' shortly after they first met. He supposed she had cause… but her mount was as good as dead (it had been too badly wounded with shrapnel for Healing) so he had put it out of its misery. Besides, he had been _hungry!

_Kiam reached into a fancloth pocket. "Here, I brought you a gift also, to commemorate your triumph." Tro took the small, square box wrapped in golden ribbon carefully from Kiam's dainty hand and held it, feeling blood rushing to his face. "To reward you, for slaying the… Construct." _

"_Th- thank you a- again, Kiam Apprentice," Tro managed to stutter, holding the box gingerly. Was this some kind of a trick – would the box explode and shower him with shrapnel, so that he suffered the fate of her much-lamented steed? Was she feeling alright? This was Kiam, after all – she _loathed_ him! Giving him rare blue chu-fruit and what looked like an expensive present, almost complimenting him... Tro was starting to feel rather worried for her – perhaps it was combat-fatigue? Should he fetch a Restorer who specialised in complaints of the mind?_

"_No need for thanks, Lightborn. It was very dutiful of you to save the life of Shadar Nor. And at such cost to yourself." Kiam glanced at his crutch a moment. "You certainly heal fast, I must say – why, you looked all-but dead when they carried you from the bedroom. Another part of the Def- of your 'Father's' famous Design, I would suppose..." She frowned. "Though I might have intervened against the Gholam had I been permitted to – I had the idea of using a Deathgate to… well, no matter. You did well, Lightborn. I do hope that you like your gift."_

"_I am... sure that I will, Kiam Apprentice," Tro stammered._

_Kiam nodded, with a small, brittle smile. "It is well that the Gholam was prevented from assassinating the First among the Servants. You have performed a goodly service in Shielding her…" Again, a hesitation. (would she call him by his rank, at least? would she call him Aethan'allein?) "…Lightborn." _

_Tro sighed. Was there a trace of Kiam's more-usual, patronising, superior smirk in that smile? Possibly... but no, he was just being overly suspicious. And rude, in not acknowledging Kiam's mannerly – if incredibly confusing! – conduct._

_Tro was not entirely sure what to do, so he stuffed the gift-box into a pocket, touched his gloved hands to his Shield and bowed formally. Naturally, he was wearing the Honour Plaque on the front of his fancloth scout-cape – for the past week, he had not removed it, even when he slept! The Shield-ter'angreal gave him a strange feeling... it should not have, but it did._

_Kiam inclined her head, gravely. "I must go. I have duties to perform. As do you." She did not leave immediately, though, but eyed him speculatively, with those dark, tilted eyes that seemed to belong to a much older woman._

"_Kiam Apprentice? There is something you wish to say?" Was she going to apologise to him for calling him 'Lightborn' to his face so much, like he had once apologised to her for attempting to eat some of her dead horse? It seemed unlikely, but..._

"_Lightborn… these wars shall not end for a long time, methinks, and then, there are the other dangers from the insane-ones, that will only worsen, despite the Hall's insistence on burying its head in the sand regarding these mad... men."_

_This was easily the most Apprentice Kiam had ever said to him! And not yet done, by the looks of it… her tone became more hesitant, if anything._

"_I feel that we got off to a bad start, you and I. In future, if there _is_ a future, I should like us to be… well, if not friends, exactly – I do not really go-in for 'friends' as most would understand the word, have never much cared for the company of my giggling fellow Apprentices, as you may have noticed. But in any case, I should like us to at least be something _other_ than enemies. Comrades, if you will. We both have certain skills that may be used advantageously against the Shadow – were we to, on occasion, combine our inherent gifts and Talents…" Kiam left it hanging in the air._

_So Tro put his gloved hands over the shiny new Shield he wore on the front of his cadin'gai and bowed again, as though to an Aes Sedai. Which Kiam was not, yet._

"_Honour to Serve, Kiam Apprentice – _when_ you have been Raised and not one moment before." _

_Kiam frowned slightly. "Well, at least that is not a 'no' I suppose."_

"_It is a 'we shall see.' Kiam… Sedai." Well, she had been respectful... sort of... there was no harm in reciprocating, he supposed._

"_Very well." Kiam smirked. "Incidentally, I am to be Raised to full Sisterhood next week – Vora said so!"_

_Tro squinted at Kiam in that special way he could and saw the glow of the Power around her intensify as she rose smoothly into the air. She glanced thoughtfully down at him from where she floated, light as gossamer. _

"_Oh, one other thing, Lightborn… do you know how to play tcheran?"_

"_Yes… though I am not very good..."_

"_Well, you cannot be good at everything, Lightborn. Even _I_ cannot be that!" Kiam chuckled as she turned, rising, her speed increasing. "Enjoy your gift!" she called, over her shoulder._

_Tro watched Kiam as she flew gracefully away, her fancloth robe fluttering around her in the wind, even her slim legs encased in leggings made of the substance, the whole ensemble shifting its colour to that of the grey-blue sky around her. She had best be careful, the pilots of a low-flying cargo-jumper might not see her until it was too late and then… smack! _

'Oh-no, Warman-pilot, Kiam Apprentice is stuck to our front view-screen!'

'So she is! Quick, Warman-co-pilot, turn on the rain-wipers!'

_Tro grinned at the thought, then remembered that Kiam Apprentice, soon to be Kiam Sedai, had been almost nice to him and had given him a gift, so felt slightly guilty. A present! He took it out of his pocket, curiously. It was a small, ornate box, of the kind that often contained jewellery… that would be odd, Kiam giving him such – perhaps a fashionable, platinum call-ring? He had always wanted one of those, though call-box technology rarely worked anymore, unless of a hardened, military design. He doubted it would fit on his finger over the gloves, but even so, it would be nice to have one…_

_Tro eagerly tore open the box. And all traces of residual guilt concerning Kiam vanished as he held up the grey, fluffy mouse-toy by its stringy tail, staring at it. It was… like something that you gave to a pet, to… to play with!_

_Tro scowled. Kiam no-doubt thought that she was being clever and ironic with her calculated insult – but he was going to damned-well play with it anyway! That would show her! He squeezed the ridiculous thing and it made a squeaking sound. He sighed. But then squeezed it again. The squeak… it _did_ sound a bit like a sorda… Tro's eyes slitted for a moment and he hissed softly. Yes… but not near so good as playing with the real thing! _

_There was a big, black rat that lived beneath Grain-Storage Bunker-C that he had had his eye on for some time, though it was an old and cunning beast and had eluded him thus far… after he had welcomed Latra Sedai back, if his duties allowed, then perhaps he would go there and… yes, the damned thing was probably spying for the Shadow, in addition to stealing Aes Sedai food… it was clearly his duty to eliminate this Rodent of the Dark! Though it would be fun, too, of course. More fun than this… this insulting… thing!_

_Tro was still standing there, bemusedly looking at his stupid fluffy mouse when Latra Sedai's flight finally arrived, necessitating him to move very fast to avoid being squashed. Fortunately, even with the crutch, he _could_ move very fast. He supposed the Pilots had not seen him - he was wearing his fancloth too, after all._

_Engines roaring, the grey bulk of the armoured Hover-sho descended onto the main pad, squatting on its landing gear. After a moment, a hatch opened and steps telescoped down. Tro approached, barely bothering to use the crutch in his eagerness. A squad of Warmen exited, taking up positions on each side of the steps, facing outwards, each shocklance held tilted against a flak-armoured chest at the exact same angle, dark eyes sweeping the pad from behind the shockvisors of their mandibled helmets. Their gaze swept over Tro as though he were part of the scenery – the Warmen were long-accustomed to the Lightborn's presence within the vicinity of the Tamyrlin, in her quarters he was practically part of the furnishings, in their estimation! Though a very dangerous item of furniture, for all of that._

_Tro examined the Warmen critically. They were good enough guards for what they were, but had he been an assassin, he could have carved his way through them in two chimes and been up inside the craft, killing everything that moved. Fortunate, then, that he was not an assassin. Well, not any more. Before taking service with Latra Sedai, he had been sent north a few times, to kill Dreadlords. He had been very good at it, of course, but had never liked being given such tasks. He thought of himself as a guard, or perhaps a Shield, now... not a killer. _

_An Officer descended the steps in the Warmen's wake, one hand resting on his sword-hilt. He nodded politely to Tro. Word must have got around, then._

"_Gholam-Killer," the Officer acknowledged, then added, "Shieldman," for good measure. Tro sighed. Both! Why did they not just toss a coin and choose one?_

_But his ire diminished at the sight of the small, slight woman who appeared in the hatchway, her tall Da'shain attendants clustered solicitously behind her._

_The Tamyrlin saw him, and smiled. Latra Sedai had a very warm smile, a snub nose and large, brown eyes, a little lined at the corners – for she was older than Vora Aes Sedai even, and almost as old as Father – but her hair was still jet-black, decorated with her glittering silver paralis net, the thirteen signs of the zodiac emblazoned on tiny discs connected with thin chains, nestling amongst her tresses. They were all there; the Ram, the Bull, the Crab... the Dragon. Tro knew _that_ one was a powerful angreal, almost a sa'angreal... the ter'angreal of the rest of the net would not work properly without it, but even so... it was always strange to see that particular symbol in Latra Sedai's hair. She and Lews Therin Telamon had hardly been friends, though she had respected the Dragon a great deal, as most had, before the Strike. Why, even Father had!_

_Latra Sedai was wearing a long, flowing hologown of ancient design, grape vines seeming to move and sway in an artificial breeze across its surface as she stood looking down at Tro. Her smile widened. He smiled back._

"_Hello there, young man," Latra Posae Decume called out, cheerfully. _

_Tro moved to stand at the foot of the steps. "Mother!" he answered, happily. _

_Latra Sedai descended gracefully and, as Tro leant down to kiss the ornate ring on her hand, affectionately ruffled the white hair of the young bodyguard who had long-protected her from numerous assassins of the Shadow – Myrddraal and Draghkar, Grey Men and Dreadlords and other Friends of the Dark… as well as one Gholam. They spoke, as they often did in public, in Mino'tan, an ancient and thoroughly dead language that both, oddly enough, had been taught by the same person. Though the tuition had taken place hundreds of years apart and the tutor had been merely Chaime Apprentice when he taught it to his then-lover, Latra Apprentice, and had been Father when he taught it to young Tro. They were, perhaps, the only three people alive who still spoke it. And one of those people was not even people!_

"_It is fine to see you out of your blankets and walking about, dear boy. You may discard your crutch and use my arm instead. I insist upon it!" _

_Tro grinned, snapped the metal crutch in half and tossed the shards into an open maintenance-hatch. Latra Sedai chuckled as he slipped a gloved hand through her proffered arm. "It is good to have you back with us, Mother."_

"_It is good to be back. It is always good to be back, when the place from whence I have returned is Paaran Disen and the Grand Hall of the Servants, not to mention the Hall's many aggravating and infuriating Sitters…"_

"_Yes. It is very nice to see you once more, Mother. The Sisters and Officers of your choir and orchestra have arranged a recital in your honour tonight… various amongst your favourite pieces to be performed, some soloists also…"_

"_Ah, music. Life would not be worth living without it, I think. I much prefer the musicians of the Northborder to those of the Capital, the music is truer somehow, more vital, for it is played and sung by those who live day-to-day in danger, not inculcated with affectation and subterfuge. And will _you_ favour us with a song, my boy?"_

"_Perhaps, Mother, if my duties permit."_

"_I shall see to it that they _do_ permit – though your duties will now alter, since you are no longer solely a bodyguard, but a Shieldman. You will require training in the use of the ter'angreal, or rather, its uses. I am sorry I missed that ceremony, but I note that you are wearing your Shield so all must have gone as planned. It is well to see that dear old Vora is still capable of changing her mind, even at her age! A miraculous occurrence!"_

"_I believe that it took one dead Gholam and one nearly-dead Tro to accomplish that miracle, Mother."_

"_I believe that you might be correct, young man. But hold – who is this 'Tro' of whom you speak? I know no-one of that name." _

_Tro blinked at Latra Sedai. _

"_Since Vora and her Sisters have given you a new title… oh, and the Warmen have come up with a name for you also, I hear… so, we must not speak of this 'Tro' ever again, it would seem…" _

_Latra Sedai knew that he disliked his number-name._

"_Call me what you will, Mother," murmured Tro softly as he paced arm-in-arm with Latra Sedai, her Warmen guards falling back a little to give the Lightborn room in case an attack came, as unlikely as that might seem on the roof of the great Keystone. Though the Warmen had heard from their brothers that the Lightborn was now to be addressed as 'Gholam Killer.' _

_The Da'shain moved ahead, giving the Warmen a wide berth, but they smiled approvingly at Tro as they drifted gracefully past. Despite his uniform, he was unarmed. Though he was always armed._

"_I will still be me, Last Lightborn, no matter the label I am stuck with."_

"_Do not worry, I shall not call you by your Warman-name, for I know your recollections of that night are far less pleasant even than my own." Latra Sedai sighed. "I wish the Warmen would not invent these names… well, I suppose it must be their Officers who do the invention, since with the valuable and laudable exception of inventive new ways to slaughter Shadow-wrought, the Warmen do not tend to invent anything." Latra Sedai lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, even though none of the non-Mino'tan speaking Warmen guards pacing behind could possibly be Father in disguise, for he was not a tall man. "As you know, I have always utterly detested being named 'Shadow-Cutter' to my face."_

"_Yes Mother, I know."_

_Latra Sedai halted her progress as ahead of them, the doors of the 'vator slid open. The Da'shain stood to either side of the capsule, waiting. Patiently. Tro sighed. He could not expect Latra Sedai to call him 'Sin'aethan Shadar Cor' all the time… he did not wish to be 'Tro'… nor did he care for 'Gholam-Killer…' perhaps it would be best if everybody just went back to calling him 'Lightborn,' or worse, 'Last Lightborn.' At least that would take the sting of it away from Kiam Sedai… no! Kiam _Apprentice_ and her damned fluffy mouse! He was going to tag her back for that... and he knew how! After the recital he would go and kill the rat, and then... he could get around the wards on her private dome easily enough… yes, Kiam was going to discover something rather unpleasant, not to mention flea-ridden, in _her_ bed!_

_Latra Sedai still had not moved, staring straight ahead into the 'vator-capsule that would take them down to the control-deck and thence, to her heartstone-shielded quarters, deep beneath the earth… though he supposed that he was a Shield now, also. Tro coughed politely, and when the Tamyrlin did not seem to have heard him, the Warmen guards waiting stolidly behind, he murmured, __"after you, Mother."_

_Latra Sedai turned her head. "Oh, I do not think so… there might well be a Gholam lurking in there, as there was beneath the bed… Angels step-in where mere Tamyrlins of the Grand Hall fear to tread…" And then, the Mother turned to gaze on Tro with those ancient, infinitely wise and kind eyes, and she smiled that warm, human smile, one human to another, though she was much more than human and he, if not _much_ less then at least, _less_ – the smile that always told him that there was at least one person in the World of the Wheel who did not regard him merely as a weapon of the Light with which to claw the Shadow. _

_"…no, after _you_… N'aethan."_


	2. Chapter 8: Away from the White Tower

_I heard it again, last night..__**.**__ a distant susurration... a whispering of air on air. It may be idle fancy, but at times I feel eyes upon me, as I go about my journeys. Excepting myself, I imagine that there is something _else_, here in this strange place that the _Alantin ti Avende_ have seemingly abandoned. It takes effort to remain serene and I much regret not bonding another after dear Jordim died – but I am of the Brown Ajah, and knowledge is all. My studies continue. Even so... I fear the sound of the wind._

**Conaia el Tichaan, Aes Sedai**

**personal journal, final entry [circa 313NE]**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 8 * Away from the White Tower<strong>_

Captain-of-Archers Thoro Mazeen narrowed his eyes as the carven leaves on the mysterious Ogier stone came to life and began to writhe again... so they were back for more already, were they? Well, each man had a full quiver and he was currently keeping every half-decent fletcher down in the village busy, so _let_ them come!

A line began to appear down the centre of the strange gate, just as it had done on all of the previous occasions. Captain Mazeen did not know why several Fists of Trollocs had come through these odd doors that the Builders had left behind when they abandoned their _stedding_... he certainly had no idea why Shadowspawn were raiding this most isolated and sparsely-populated part of westernmost Saldaea, of all places... Mazeen was a soldier, he did what he was told. His Lordship had commanded them to stand here, to stand and guard the gate, so that was what they would do.

Captain Mazeen's voice, after near forty years of bawling orders at his fellow Bordermen, had a certain snap to it, a carrying quality. "Sappers, back to your places! Front rank, kneel. Get ready lads, here come more fish for the barrel!"

The bonfires to either side banished the late evening gloom, reddish light flickering against the twin stone gates as they opened outwards, revealing a dull, silvery portal into whichever dark place it was the Ogier had once visited... and out of it, onto the churned-up, gore-stained mud, stepped a man and a woman, each pulling a saddled gelding behind them, a packhorse following-on. Their mounts seemed every bit as eager to leave as they did... The woman fiddled with something amongst the carven leaves and the gates swung closed in their wake. She turned to look at the soldiers, registering bemusement at their presence. Mazeen still had his hand raised and hesitated – they were clearly not Trollocs – but a youth who was new to the Company flinched at their emergence and squeezed the trigger of his crossbow anyway. Several others, hearing the deep twang, followed-suit.

"Yaaa!" shouted the woman in surprise, raising the black staff she held. The small flight of bolts slammed to an abrupt halt, a span from their targets, as though they had struck an invisible wall. Captain Mazeen noted that the woman was staring at the quarrels with a penetrating, brown-eyed gaze, half-hidden behind spiky locks of pale hair. He noted also that a golden serpent-ring gleamed upon her hand, and that her short, dark, scowling companion wore a fancloth cloak. Mazeen groaned softly.

"Dreadlord!" shouted the nervous youth who had fired first, struggling with the crank on his crossbow, "I mean... _Dreadlady!_"

More crossbow bolts followed on from this before Captain Mazeen found his voice, putting his usual parade-ground roar to shame.

"She's a bloody _Aes Sedai!_ Cease fire! _Cease fire!_"

Fortunately, these final bolts were likewise halted in mid-air. The Aes Sedai was still staring at them intently as they hung there. Her Warder had slid a short, ivory-hilted blade from his sash and was clearly wondering who to stab with it first. Mazeen took the opportunity to go over and cuff the foolish youth around the back of his helmet. The other offending archers lowered their crossbows, abashed.

"What in the burning Pit do you idiots think you're _doing?_" shouted the Aes Sedai, angrily, "stop shooting those bloody arrows at us!" Her Warder had sidled in front of her to provide a human-shield, but she pushed him out of the way, glaring at the Captain-of-Archers.

"Forgive us Aes Sedai, we thought you Shadowspawn!" Mazeen bellowed, apologetically.

"Do we _look_ like flaming Shadowspawn?"

Mazeen shook his greying head solemnly. "No, but of course you do not! Although have a care, Honoured Sister of the White Tower – there may be more Spawn of the Shadow back there, in the odd Ogier place... they could be ravening upon your heels even as we speak!"

"Oh, _them_... no, we killed them all," remarked the Aes Sedai, absently, "except for the ones that ran away, though I think that nasty wind thing probably got them..." She scowled. "But I'm warning you now, if any more _arrows_ come my way..." – she made a twirling motion with the staff and in response, the hovering bolts revolved until each pointed threateningly back in the direction from which it had come, causing a fair amount of gasping and flinching amongst the men of the Company – "...then I shall bloody-well _return to sender!_"

* * *

><p><strong>Part I : Tar Valon<strong>

The White Tower was in uproar! _Not only_ the Daughter-Heir of Andor _but also _the grumpy Two Rivers Wilder who was always yanking on her braid _as well as_ her village-neighbour, the pretty Innkeeper's daughter who was apparently called 'Egg-_something_' (odd names, these Andorans!) had _all_ disappeared into thin air! No-one had even seen them embark on a rivership, much less walk their horses (also missing) across one of the bridges. They had completely vanished! As had Elmindreda Farshaw of Baerlon in the west of Andor (near to a certain absentee Noblewoman's estate and salt-mine) though since _she_ lacked the privilege of being one of the three most promising girls to sign the Novice-book in a thousand years, no-one seemed to care quite so much about _her_…

But Renn did. She rather liked 'just-Min' from what she had seen of her, and even Ellyth (who could be a little uncharitable at times) had mentioned that the girl seemed to have 'backbone.' But there was more to it than that. There always was...

Rennetta Faltrey of the Brown Ajah sat, as she often did, in the Great Library of the White Tower, trying to read a letter that had been written by someone two-thousand years dead. But her mind was elsewhere… a place it often resided.

Renn squinted at the cramped script. She was currently holding the Power – it beat any magnifying-lens! – but even so, the few yellowing pages had ink so faded that much was indiscernible. She had found the cracked, leather folder stuffed full of ancient letters whilst looking for her mouse – who she had _not_ found, she hoped he had not fallen afoul of one of the rat-wardings. _Or_ old Verin's accursed owl... The folder had slipped down behind a bookcase in the archive chamber used to store the Amyrlin's correspondence. It was much older than anything else in there, had obviously survived several purges of the letters of past Amyrlins. The contents were mostly illegible, but one heavily creased sheet of parchment was not. In addition to the crumbled remnants of wax seals and faded ribbons, the letter was watermarked with the Royal Sigil of long-dead Safer, one of the fabled Ten Nations. A slender tree upon a hill, said to be a sapling of fabled Avendesora.

Renn scowled, touching her ear whilst she attempted to read the writing of two millennia past. It was not particularly sore anymore – Jabal had been very careful when he pierced her lobe with the heated needle – but the delicate gold ring in it still felt odd and she could not stop herself from fiddling with it. The fine vermilion ink on the parchment had weathered the passage of time better than the cheap stuff used in some of the other letters. The missive seemed to be from His Grace, the Anointed Guardian of the Western Approaches (whatever _they_ were!) an'Korae dor Halawayne, High-King of Safer; addressed to the Amyrlin Seat, Holder of the Flame, Watcher of the Seals, Simharla Luendil, of whom Renn had never heard. It was dated AB1346... shortly before the calendar changed to Free Years.

The letter began with flowery condolences on the passing of the Amyrlin's predecessor, deceased from natural causes whilst somewhere up in northern Aramaelle, though what she was doing _there_ in the final days of the Trolloc Wars, Renn could only guess at. The name of the previous Amyrlin Seat was not given. It might have been whoever succeeded Rashima Kerenmosa, the famous Soldier Amyrlin? Records of the Amyrlins from between the end of the Wars and the time of Davian, three hundred years later, were sketchy at best. The notorious False Dragon had detested Aes Sedai, and his fanatical followers had done their best to destroy what little history of the White Tower had survived the Wars. Condolences out of the way, the missive went on to regret that the _cuendillar_ artefact in question could sadly _not_ be returned to the White Tower as it enjoyed pride of place in the Royal Collection. Could the King interest the Flame of Tar Valon in some unusual bones instead, the skeleton of a strange and monstrous animal, a great, tusked beast?

Then, formalities over with, the letter rapidly descended into whining accusation and petulant demands for justice – the War Hero, Lord-General Tamulchinda, was a _wine-thief!_ This seemed odd to Renn, gold or jewels were surely a better object of thievery – all she really knew of wine was that its making involved grapes. Her mother's Inn at Northharbour had mostly confined itself to the serving of ales and ciders, there was little call for wine amongst the clientele... The diatribe continued, growing more personal about the errant Lord-General. You could not trust a supposedly-reformed Dragonsworn! The treacherous old reprobate should _not_ have been awarded command of the Tower Legions and named Grand Warden of Tar Valon! It was a travesty! There were further accusations and demands for this 'Tamulchinda' (who Renn had never heard of either) to be brought to justice – apparently he had toasted the 'ultimate victory of the Light' with a glass of the King's _own_ stolen rare vintage at the Grand Victory Gala! But rainwater had dripped onto the folder at some point and further down, the lines of ink had blurred together somewhat.

Renn raised the parchment, holding it up to a tall, mullioned window to take advantage of the morning sunlight streaming through, picking out dancing motes of dust in its broad beam... but this did not help since there was someone standing in the way, casting their shadow over the proceedings and staring at her with pale eyes. And again, not for the first time that morning, the same question arose in Renn's mind.

_What is Liandrin up to?_

Renn was thinking about the day before yesterday…

_Renn Sedai scowled. The person she was scowling at scowled back at her. Typical! She had not left the Library in what felt like a month (even _she_ got tired of books sometimes) and had decided to go for a walk, down in the gardens near the Tower stables... and who was the first person she ran into? _

_(Of course, it would have been nice if Jabal could have come for a walk too, then they might have found a secluded spot and… but no, she could feel her husband through the bond, down at his shed in Southharbour, doing yet another something-that-needed-doing to his precious Riverpike! She had not realised, when she wed the fellow that there would be a third entity in their marriage to whom he was also bound – a bloody boat! She wished she had never let him build it! She certainly wished she had never paid for all of that wood and rope and brass and canvas and… was this what it was like amongst the Sea Folk? Did they make such swingeing bargains and charge so dearly for their accursed silk, simply to be able to afford to pay for the endless succession of things needed to keep their boats floating? Or ships, or whatever they were…)_

But Renn was getting side-tracked. She often-

_(Though actually, she could sense that Jabal had now left the boat-shed and was on his way back to the Tower. By way of that low, sailor's Tavern he liked to frequent, doubtless... her mother had told her stories about that place!)_

-got side-tracked. Well, in any case, Renn had left the Library for a while, in order to remind herself of what the sun looked like, intending a nice walk about the Tower grounds… and who was the first person she ran into?

_Liandrin Sedai scowled back at the person scowling at her. _

"_Get out of the way, Bookworm," she hissed, pushing rudely past. Renn repressed the urge to trip Liandrin as she swept by, trip her up and give her a good drubbing into the bargain! But an Aes Sedai shouldn't behave like that. Besides, Liandrin was stronger in the Power, and would probably just drub her back… but when Renn got her hands on an angreal - watch-out, Liandrin!_

_Renn narrowed her eyes. Why was the horrid snitch carrying her own saddle-bags? _Most_ unlike Liandrin to do that, she was perfectly capable of summoning some poor Tower servant to carry so much as a needlework basket or a knitting bag about for her! Not that Liandrin did needlework or knitting, of course. She probably just tortured cute, fluffy animals, for relaxation… Suddenly, Renn realised that she had forgotten to say something rude _back_ – she was _such_ a forgetful person!_

"_As charming as ever, Tattletale!" Renn shouted, but she was not sure if Liandrin had heard, having vanished into the Tower stables by that point. Off somewhere in a hurry, by the looks of it. Hopefully, somewhere very far away (Shara would do!) and not back for a good long while… Renn turned, pleased with her response. Even if Liandrin had not heard, that had still told her! At which point, a skinny boy burdened with numerous saddlebags and wearing a large, floppy hat that presumably obscured his vision of what lay ahead, came racing around the corner and knocked Renn down!_

"_Oof!" Renn lay on her back, winded, feeling a bit like her tortoise, who did not like to be placed in this particular position either. The stable-boy or whatever he was dropped the saddlebags, a hand pressed to his mouth, whilst a novice walked swiftly by – it was that feckless Else Grinwell girl, doubtless sneaking off to the Warder's practice-yard when she was supposed to be in class – and she did not even stop! Disgraceful! When Renn was a novice, if _she_ had seen an Aes Sedai lying on her back, then _she_ would have paused to help her up! _If_ she had seen her, Renn had spent quite a lot of her time as a novice reading things, even whilst walking about, so might not have noticed… but that was no excuse for this Grinwell specimen, who had just gone sailing past without a care in the world! Renn did not know what the Tower was coming to, she really didn't… But at least the stable-boy recovered himself and pulled Renn to her feet (though since he had knocked her over in the first place, he bloody-well ought to!) dusting her down, patting ineffectually at her mauve silk robe, embroidered with emerald fish. He was not to know that much of the dust on it had already been there..._

"_Sorry, Aes Sedai," he piped. He had quite a high-pitched voice, for a boy, Renn noted._

"_Well, that is alright I suppose," responded Renn absently, "these things happen, after all… and where are you off to in such a hurry, young fellow?"_

_The pretty boy blinked his dark eyes and Renn abruptly realised that he was a girl! Or rather, that _she_ was a girl! "Oh, it is _you_ – the Andoran maid who dresses-up in boy's clothing. I am sorry about that, Elmindreda, it is just that with those britches and the hat…"_

"_It is just 'Min' Aes Sedai, now if you will please excuse me, the others will be waiting, I must…" The girl dressed as a boy trailed-off, glancing up at something above Renn's head and squinting. Renn knew what _that_ meant!_

"_Whatever it is, I don't want to know!" Renn snapped, turning to leave and taking a couple of steps. But her curiosity got the better of her (it usually did) and she turned back. "Oh alright… but not if it is anything nasty! Here, girl, I'd buy yourself a nice _dress_ with it if I were you, you won't find yourself a handsome fellow going around looking like a stable-hand! Well, perhaps you will… sometimes handsome fellows are to be found in stables also… handsome horses too, I shouldn't wonder… but even so, a nice dress certainly wouldn't hurt!"_

_Min Farshaw looked down at the gold Tar Valon mark that had been pressed into her palm by the talkative and oddly-dressed young Aes Sedai whom she had often seen in the Tower Library… _

"_How did you know about the gold mark?"_

"_Never you mind, girl!" Renn responded, with her best mysterious Aes Sedai voice, but then relented. There was no harm in telling her. Or perhaps there was… too late, she was doing it. "Oh, alright! I once happened to overhear you in the stables, saying something to yourself about, 'I should charge them all a gold mark each!' " she explained. Renn did not elaborate – the girl needn't know about the bat!_

"_The stables?" Min muttered, eyeing Renn suspiciously._

"_Yes, I happen to be a friend of the Blue Sister who asked you a question or two on that day, but do not worry, your secret is safe with us! I mean, me! Now, what vision do you see, Min? Don't tell me if it's bad, mind!"_

_"Oh, it is not bad... I do not see anything about death..."_

_Renn breathed a gusty sigh of relief._

_"I see…" – Min had pocketed the gold mark and was squinting above Renn's head again – "...I see a black ship, a white stone..."_

_"_That_ doesn't sound very interesting!"_

_"...they are in the middle of a forest..."_

_"Well, that's a bit different, I suppose..."_

_"...it means that you will go on a long journey, though not over the waves. It is very important that you do so. Oh, and I saw that Horn again also, just for a moment, the one I saw above the head of the Green Ajah Sister – the one that was _not_ the Horn of Valere, though she wouldn't listen to me!"_

_Renn snorted. "I have absolutely no intention of going on any long voyages, thank-you very much! _Or_ swearing my oaths and becoming a Hunter for the Horn! I'm far too busy with my research... I have been thinking of beginning a biography of Willim of Maneches..." She wondered if it was too late to ask for her gold mark back? Probably..._

_Min ignored all of this, shaking her head as though she already knew that Renn would inevitably do what she saw in the vision. "Oh, and I suppose I should tell you... there was something else..." she added, reluctantly._

"_I don't know if I want to hear any more!"_

"_No, I told you everything about _your_ vision, but there was something I did not tell your Blue Ajah friend… it seemed so unlikely, since she is so…" Min shrugged. "She angered me so I did not tell her everything… and besides, it seemed so inconsequential to someone like her, I did not think she would be interested or would even believe me…"_

"_Yes, I know... Blues are so single-minded!"_

"_Well, yes… but if you see her again, tell her that I saw… marriage!"_

_Renn threw back her head and laughed. "She is going to get married?" The day Ellyth wed, she would eat her own knitting-bag, including the needles!_

"_Yes, I know it does not seem likely. But she will fall in love and marry, I am never wrong about these things!" Min scowled, muttering, "I wish I _was_, believe me..."_

"_I rather think that you might be wrong on this occasion!" _

_Min shook her head firmly. "As she left the stables, above her head I saw a… a shield, only it was not a shield in the same way that a rowing-boat is not a Sea Folk Raker… I cannot explain it better than that… this shield, or whatever it was, had a silver star on it... the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai… and it was draped in wedding garlands!" _

"_How unusual… so my friend is going to marry a shield… perhaps other items from the armoury shall attend the ceremony… mayhap a sword will read out the words of blessing… whilst an axe and a spear dance with each other! Well, I do hope that they will both be very happy together, she and the shield." Renn was smirking a little, and obviously did not believe Min, who scowled in response._

"_Yes well, I must go now, I will make the others late…"_

"_That is certainly a lot of saddlebags you have there, just-Min."_

_Min did not choose to respond to this; Renn watched as she hefted these saddlebags back over her shoulder and started towards the novice's quarters before pausing and turning back for a moment, grinning and rolling the heavy Tar Valon mark skilfully back and forth over her knuckles, exclaiming; "…oh, and I will _not_ buy a dress with your gold, Aes Sedai, I shall buy myself a nice new _dagger_ instead!" before hurrying off._

_Renn shrugged. "Well, you earned it. Spend it how you see fit, girl…" and as Min disappeared through an archway, she shouted, "and if you see Liandrin on your travels – you can't miss her, she has a face like she's sucked on a lemon all her life! – then tell her that _I_ said…" But there was no point in finishing. Min was gone. Renn shrugged, turned and strode back towards the Library, wondering about the vision. To the Pit with a nice walk… there was just too much going on out here! _

"Hello, Bookworm," said Rashiel Tamor of the Red Ajah.

Renn lowered the letter, having read the same sentence over several times. Why was she holding the parchment up to the window when there was someone standing in the way? Someone whom she recognised, despite the unaccustomed garb. It was _Rashiel_ who was blocking out the sunlight! She looked as though she had just got back from a long journey... and she was wearing boy's clothing, like young Min did. That was odd! Rashiel _usually_ wore dresses, didn't she? Dresses with very low necklines, as a rule, but then the girl _was_ rather well-endowed in that department, so why not flaunt herself a little? Renn might have done the same, just for fun, at a dance perhaps... but no, she was a respectable, married woman, now. For all that she shared her husband with a flaming boat!

Renn frowned. But why the boy's clothes..? Well, they must be _men's_, all rolled-up at the sleeves like that… rather dirty men's garments too, they could use a wash. So could Rashiel. She could use a good _bath!_ Her hair looked nicer than it usually did, though… good for her. Wouldn't go around looking like the outhouse brush anymore! Not that _she_ could talk, of course… Renn touched her own unruly locks of pale hair self-consciously, brushing them out of her eyes for the hundredth time that day. It was funny, those ringletty things in Rashiel's hair looked a lot like the ones Ellyth favoured… if she didn't know better, she would think that Ellyth had done Rashiel's hair. Renn always refused to let Ellyth touch hers, since she thought that she would look ridiculous with ringlets and her friend had agreed with her in that snobby way of hers! But Ellyth would _never _do Rashiel's hair, though she might burn it all off for her instead! Those two were like a pair of alley cats fighting in a sack!

Renn did not dislike Rashiel nearly so much as Ellyth did, because Rashiel was always kind to animals, particularly horses. But spiders too! In fact, Rashiel had punched Liandrin on the nose after Liandrin unnecessarily squashed Renn's harmless furry pet, and the Ebou Dari novice had received a painful strapping for it! Renn, who had punched Liandrin on the nose just prior to Rashiel's punch – despite the Healing immediately given to the whining, bleeding Liandrin, her nose had never looked _quite_ the same again! – had _not_ got into trouble because she had been provoked, was still crying and besides, the Mistress of Novices _liked_ her.

In Ellyth's first encounter with Liandrin, she had also been provoked, but the Mistress of Novices (who had once had a beloved Warder tortured by Whitecloak Questioners) had not seen fit to grant clemency on that occasion. There _had_ been the remark about witches, after all. How Ellyth had howled, that first night in the Tower - Renn supposed that her soft, Noblewoman's backside had probably never been strapped before! Renn had sneaked around to her room later and Healed Ellyth's bruised bottom, even though she was not supposed to and would get a dose of the strap herself if the Mistress of Novices found out… which was another way of saying, if Liandrin or one of her cronies _told_ on her.

Renn didn't much care for Noblewomen, judging by the very few she had seen staying at her mother's Inn when growing up, but this Ellythia seemed nice enough that she would have Healed her anyway, even had she not felt that the incident had partly been her fault, for forgetting to warn the new girls about Liandrin… Shrinalla had been there also, comforting her weeping, home-sick friend and darkly threatening to take Liandrin to the top floor of the Tower and hang her out of a window. After the Healing, they had all sat on Ellyth's bed for a while, talking about the things they would do when they were Aes Sedai.

None of the other novices could Heal bruises (if no more than that) but Renn was a special case. Whilst walking past the practice-yard on her first day in the Tower, she had noticed a Yellow Sister Healing a nasty gash her Warder had taken in the practice-yard when his opponent, Atual Gaidin, had got carried-away and broke his practice-blade. Renn had heard that in the War (which her father, a Tower Guardsman, had also fought in) the big, grim fellow from Far Madding had killed more Aielmen than any other Warder of the Tower – well, except for Lord Mandragoran, of course! Since some of the blood on the snow in the final battle of the Aiel War had been her father's, Renn could not help but approve of this. After the Healing, Milona Sedai had apologised profusely to the other, scowling Sister, while the two Warders just rolled their eyes at each other and grinned about the fuss Aes Sedai made – _Yellow Ajah_, who should be used to it! – over a little bit of blood and a few splinters… Renn, loitering nearby with some other newly-arrived novices, had paid close attention to the Yellow Sister's weaves… she only ever needed to glimpse a weave briefly to have it down perfectly… provided she noticed it in the first place!

Renn had begun to touch the Source at a much earlier age than most girls did, but had neglected to mention this when she came to the Tower, since she did want to get called a Wilder… in the classes, she had just sat there, alongside the other girls, slowly learning the simple techniques, some of which she had already mastered when she was thirteen years old! Renn did not like to stand-out from the crowd. She was shy.

A year later, after the spider incident, Renn had sneaked around to Rashiel's room following the strapping and Healed her bruises also, even though she was still not supposed to. It had come much easier to her by then. Renn was very good at Healing, though was seldom afforded the opportunity to use her skill in the Tower... the Yellows had wanted her but the Browns had wanted her _more_ and told the Yellows where to get off! She had found this out by spying on old Morvrin…

Rashiel had then produced a bottle of wine from beneath a loose floorboard – Rashiel was not supposed to have _wine_ in her room, she was so rebellious! – and they had sat on her bed, passing the bottle back and forth, and talked about boys for a while. Rashiel proved to know almost as much about boys as Shrina did! More than Renn, anyway, though she still knew more than Ellyth! She had seen a side to Rashiel that few others had seen that night, though the next day the terrible news came, the news about her father... but still, Rashiel was not like the other Reds, Renn had always considered. She had a heart! It was in there somewhere, anyway…

Even so... _four_ saddlebags... _four_ missing horses... _four_ vanished girls... and a certain Red Ajah spider-squashing _sneak_, last seen leading them into the Ogier Grove... Renn's brow furrowed. Pole-lanterns... why would she need _them..?_

_what_ _in the Wheel is Liandrin up to?_

* * *

><p>"<em>Give me your trust, said the love of my life,<em>

_For the wind is so cold and it cuts like a knife_

_And the world's turned to ice, torn with battle and strife;_

_So a man needs the warmth of a wife."_

Jabal din Sudim Lionfish of Clan Takana was feeling pleased with himself. He did not have a favourite Inn as such, but usually gave _The Woman of Tanchico_ his occasional custom since he preferred the place to the more staid taverns where most of the other Warders drank, usually run by retired Tower Guardsmen. He had first gone there on a whim, since when he still roamed the salt as a lad, sailing the Silk Route from mysterious Shara to Bandar Eban and all ports in-between, Tanchico had always been his favourite harbour. He liked Mada, as well as her sister, Saal, and the place usually had a good atmosphere. Not too quiet, yet not too rowdy. Except for the drunk Gleeman, of course. He had got to the chorus. The _final_ chorus, hopefully!

"_But trust is the feel of a blade in the back,_

_Trust is the feel of a noose losing slack,_

_Trust is the feel of a soul's last breath;_

_Trust is the feel of death."_

The Tavern was not usually busy at this time of day, but now was even less so; already two of the regulars had risen and slipped out to find an alternate drinking-hole where they would not have their heart-strings cruelly wrenched! This left only the three jewel merchants, sitting there, looking glum. They had frowned a bit at the first verse, which had been about 'Aes Sedai' but now one of them, the older of the pair who wore the leather cords about their heads – Jabal thought they were probably Borderlanders, though Shorebound all looked much alike to him – was sobbing quietly into his ale. Only them left, as well as Jabal, who was _still_ feeling pleased with himself, despite the ambience.

Shoulders slumped, the Gleeman returned to where Jabal sat drinking, setting his harp down carelessly on the table and lowering his tall, lanky frame onto a stool. He drained his wine-cup, poured some more from the jug and stared down into it, darkly.

"Do you know any good sea-shanties, Master Gleeman?" enquired Jabal, hopefully.

The Gleeman just looked at him, with cold blue eyes that were rather glassy. Evidently, he was not taking requests currently, but in stead performing his entire repertoire of sad, tragic ballads! Though that last one had also managed to be rather bitter, Jabal thought. Clearly, the Gleeman would not be singing _The Mermaid and her Sisters_ anytime soon!

Jabal customarily stopped at _The Woman of Tanchico_ on the way back from tending to his beloved _Rivershark_, with her fine white lateen looming up like the great fin of the white shark that he had once slain... but sharks did not normally frequent rivers Renn had explained, when she insisted he call his sailboat '_Riverpike_' – though Jabal still named the noble craft '_Rivershark_' in his heart. Besides, pikes did not have that same kind of scary-to-see-while-you're-swimming protuberance... though he had cut the fin from the beast that tried to eat him (for soup) and took some of its skin with which to make a fine jacket for himself and a peculiar shark-skin stole for Aunt Nyein, which she claimed to like but never wore. Perhaps she preferred to wear the skins of novices who had disturbed the peace of the Library? Or possibly, she thought it inappropriate to wear a stole of any kind, since, but for the Keeper, such a garment seemed to be the sole province of the Amyrlin Seat?

Jabal shuddered slightly, and took a further sip of wine. A disconcerting woman, Siuan Sanche! He had only been in the presence of the Mother once, and had not said anything beyond agreeing with her that he was, indeed, a fool – and then had kept his mouth firmly shut. For a Shorebound Tairen who thought tacking about in the Dragon's Fingers was salt-sailing, the Amyrlin certainly knew a great many fish-related insults and threats, more than him... and he knew a _lot!_ All of which she had exercised in their brief interview, back when he got into trouble for killing those Banking-House guards...

After which, Jabal had been sent off with Atual Gaidin to go and sign his name in the Book of Gaidin. Well, at least they did not execute him... and it seemed he was to be a Warder now, too, just like his guide, who was also his guard.

"You'll _like_ being Gaidin," Atual had assured him, "it's a fine life, for a fish!" This had been the most the taciturn fellow had said to him since, just prior to his interview with the Amyrlin, suggesting that if he _was_ sentenced to death (which he probably would be) then he should request beheading and ask for his guard to do the deed, as Atual would make a clean job of it! Jabal had coldly told the long-haired Shorebound Warder that if the verdict went against him, he would ask for his sword back (it was currently tucked through Atual's belt) and cut off his _own_ head! Atual had grinned and punched him bruisingly on the shoulder.

"Ah, if the Mother gives you clemency then you should _definitely_ come and be our Brother, fish-boy – why, you're clearly _every bit_ stupid enough to be a Warder of the Tower!"

An odd day, indeed, the day he came to Tar Valon and found himself exiled from the salt and bound to the Aes Sedai! Jabal still recalled it as if it had been yesterday, rather than three years ago...

_The sound of breaking glass still ringing in his be-ringed ears, Raab hit the cobbles with his bare feet together, briskly tucking and rolling... and running! His cousin was a leap and two steps behind, but landed badly, spraining his ankle._

_"I'll cut your ears off, out-Clan!" roared Jabal din Sudim Lionfish – but even as he resumed his own bare feet, several Banking-House guards had already moved to block his path toward the rapidly-diminishing-into-the-distance Raab. Behind them, two pretty young women were staring at him, mouths open. One of them had the palest hair he had ever seen, a fine bosom and big brown eyes... but the Renegade was getting away!_

_"Stop!" shouted Jabal loudly, inventively (and quite rightly) enlarging this to "stop, thief!" even louder. Two slim fellows in olive green coats mostly obscured by fluttering fancloth, hared-off in pursuit, leaving Jabal to face the guards. Two of whom then attempted to kill him. This proved to be a mistake on their part..._

But that was all in the past, because right now, Jabal was feeling pleased with himself. Except on special occasions, his wife allowed him only one copper per day, therefore only _one_ drink on the way home from the boat-shed, when two would have been more congenial... but so far, the drunk Gleeman had bought him three! Or was it four? What sort of self-respecting Gleeman _ever_ bought a drink for a non-Gleeman in his life? It was supposed to be the other way around!

Renn had not entered this good fortune into her one-copper-a-day calculations. Jabal loved his wife dearly and was glad to be married, for a man needs discipline and authority and guidance in his life... and it was for _this_ reason that the Creator made wives! But every husband relishes the sweet, schoolboy delight of very occasionally getting away with something. Like a Gleeman buying you drinks that you could not afford to buy yourself!

The Gleeman was weeping quietly again, his bushy white brows drawn down, shaking his head slowly from side to side. How much had the fellow imbibed? Though he had seen plenty of intoxicated Gleemen in his time, Jabal had never seen a Gleeman who was _this_ drunk before... for all that he had good reason... Jabal (who was starting to feel a little maudlin himself) sighed sadly and leaned closer, patting a patch-cloaked shoulder in commiseration.

"There-there, good Gleeman… the first girl _I_ loved was killed too, in a bad fight with the salt-cursed Storm-Children, and I thought that I would not ever find another like her… and I have not, to be fair, but I found a girl who was just as good, though in different ways… and now, she is my wife!" Jabal was feeling more verbose than usual, since the Gleeman was very drunk and no-one else was listening. He lowered his voice confidingly, even so – "my wife, she is _Aes Sedai_, you see… and believe me, that is the very _best_ kind of wife to have… you should try it, my friend! Perhaps one day, when you are over your grief, you will take an Aes Sedai to wife also?"

"Unlikely," muttered Thom Merrilin, pushing his cup aside, lowering his crossed arms and head to the table and going back to sleep. Jabal gave him a last pat on the shoulder, then stood a little unsteadily, tucking his sword back through his sash, though it took him two attempts.

Jabal smiled at Mada on his way out and she smiled back. The serving woman knew him for a Warder though he was not wearing his fancloth and rarely did, he was not even sure where the odd, colour-shifting cloak _was_... perhaps somewhere in Renn's study? In which case, it might take some time to find it should he need to wear it abroad of the White Tower… which he never had, of course.

"Thank-you for at least _trying_ to cheer up Thom…" said Mada, patting his arm, her eyes drifting admiringly over his smoothly-muscled chest... Shorebound women often seemed to do that! It was strange... almost as strange as the fuss they made about going equally bare-chested! But Jabal returned the smile of the pretty, brown-eyed woman, though not so warmly as he might have once, when he still roamed the salt, for he was a married man now. Even so... he had always thought that there was something about the women of Tanchico... Jabal shook his head. And hoped Renn wasn't paying too close an attention to the bond!

"Poor fellow," Jabal muttered, as he reached for the waistcoat he had left hanging by the door, "he told me all about it, without naming any names. I am glad he killed the men who killed his woman, it is only right. But tell me, why is he not in Illian with all of the other Gleemen? That might distract him from his woes... he is the only Gleeman I have seen in Tar Valon for many a week…"

Saal joined her sister by the door as Jabal shrugged into the emboidered silk waistcoat Renn had bought for him, both women's eyes lingering on his only slightly less bare chest, though directing the occasional concerned glance toward the Gleeman, who had begun to snore softly.

"We don't know why he's here either, Jabal," Saal sighed, "Thom got back from Cairhein last night and jumped straight into a vat of wine! Whatever it is, it's bad, to make him miss the Great Hunt..." Mada shook her head sadly.

Abruptly, the Gleeman alarmingly resumed consciousness, sitting straight upright, pounding a bony old fist on the table – and revealed that he had been following Jabal's whispered words more closely than had appeared to be the case.

"I will _never_ marry a bloody Aes Sedai!" the Gleeman declared, loudly.

Gasps of shock from Mada and Saal. Jabal winced slightly. His marriage _was_ supposed to be a secret – _especially_ where his rather disconcerting mother-in-law was concerned! The Gleeman held up two fingers, though not in a rude way, since they were pressed together and not arranged in the insulting 'Manetheren salute.'

"But for Dena..." the Gleeman faltered, the impressive white moustaches below his nose trembling a little before he gathered himself, "except for _her_, I have loved but _two_ women in my life, a goodwife and a Queen – both of whom attempted to _kill me_ shortly before I could plight my troth! Marriage? Hah! I will _never_ marry, but most _especially_, I shall not ever wed a White Tower witch!"

The Borderland merchants were shaking their heads slowly and pursing their lips with disapproval, whilst Mada and Saal – loyal natives of Tar Valon for all that their mother had been a Taraboner – were aghast!

"Hush, Thom!"

"For shame, Thom!"

Whilst the Gleeman fumbled for his harp and rose awkwardly to perform yet another melancholic ballad, Jabal decided, not unwisely, that it was time to leave and did so, treading carefully on the cobbles outside since Shorebound often left bits of broken glass and old nails lying around. He took his customary short-cut through the Ogier Grove on his way back to the Tower, skirting the spiralling stone arches that bordered the park, his bare feet soundless in the lush grass. But it had been four (perhaps five?) large cups of wine, and Jabal felt that nature's call was too insistent to wait until he got back to the Tower, so he prowled further into the grove to find a place of privacy, a suitable tree. As such, he could not help but notice the five riders, though they fortunately did not notice him, given what he was about.

Just as well also, for Jabal was scowling darkly at the Aes Sedai leading the small party. The Red from Tanchico – the _one_ woman from that city whom he definitely did _not_ favour, the sulky creature who always looked as though she had been sucking on a salted fish! He would probably not have cared for her in any case, but even so, his wife's enemy was _his_ enemy! If only Red Ajah were permitted to bond Warders, Jabal could have challenged the unlucky fellow to a sparring-match and beaten him black-and-blue about the practice yard, in a show of loyalty!

Strange to see _that_ one in the company of three richly-dressed girls and a stable-boy... in the company of _anyone_, for that matter... one of them appeared to be arguing with her... Accepted by the looks of it, she wore the Ring – and the boy was a girl! The pretty wench who went more sensibly dressed than most Shorebound females and saw strange visions and kept the little knives up her sleeves!

Jabal watched curiously as they disappeared into the depths of the grove and did not emerge. Vaguely, he wondered why their packhorse was loaded with what appeared to be pole-lanterns and lamp-oil. But Aes Sedai business was none of his... perhaps he should mention it to Renn, though? Jabal shrugged, buttoned his oilcloth britches, and continued on his way, whistling a shanty.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Bookworm."<p>

Rashiel had hoped Renn would be here, in the Library – where else? – but it would be just like her to choose _this_ day of all days to go for a walk instead… Rashiel had seen her briefly before she set out with Galina and the others to hunt the self-titled Dragon of the North, and Renn had complained that her study was now too stuffed full of things for her to be able to force the door open anymore, so she had abandoned it altogether for the time being… Consequently, Renn should be down here, in the Library… Rashiel _hoped_ that she would be, at least… she certainly could think of no-one else in the entire White Tower in whom she would willingly place her trust.

"Hello, Bookworm," Rashiel repeated, softly. No good. Renn still had that far-away look in her eyes. Perhaps if she slapped Renn on the top of her head quite hard? Or tipped a bucket of water over her? Would Renn come back from the distant Renn-place where she thought about things and respond to her greeting _then?_ Rashiel raised her pale eyes to the ceiling of the Library, placed both hands on her curvaceous hips and sighed, loudly and gustily. The noise echoed...

"Sshh!" hissed Aiden Sedai, poking her angry face out from behind a stack.

"It was only a bloody _sigh_, Aiden Sedai!" Rashiel protested, loudly.

"And that is your _second_ warning, _Shorebound mockdragon-snatcher!_ Make me shush you again and I shall drag you out from the _Library_ by your ear and feed you to the riverfishes!" This entire sentence was delivered in an angry _Atha'an Miere_ hiss, except for the word 'Library' which Aiden Sedai somehow managed to fill with a note of deep reverence, in the midst of all that invective. With a last dark scowl, her tattooed hand resting on the ivory-hilted knife tucked into her sash, and without seeming to move her legs, the small, round Sea Folk Aes Sedai drifted soundlessly back behind the oaken stacks of ancient, leather and wood-bound tomes. No doubt lying in wait back there, in case Rashiel _breathed_ too loudly! It was always the short ones who were so fiery!

Rashiel frowned. But only when Aiden Sedai was safely out of sight... bloody woman! Threatening a sister Aes Sedai! Honestly, what kind of a burning librarian _was_ she? The Sea Folk were all mad, everyone in Ebou Dar knew it... no-doubt they ran-out of fresh water on their long voyages and drank from the sea!

Rashiel muttered something rather rude under her breath. _Really!_ After what she had been through recently, she was in _no mood_. She turned back to Renn who was still staring up at her with the faraway look in her light brown eyes that was all-too familiar. Rashiel leant closer over the table, until her nose was almost touching Renn's, their eyes level.

"_Hello_, _Bookworm!_" Rashiel hissed.

Renn blinked, her eyes focusing a little. "Oh... hello, Trolloc…" she responded, absently.

Rashiel sighed again. But quietly, this time. And continued in a piercing whisper; "it is not _Trolloc_, it is 'Trollop' because I like to kiss boys and sit on men's laps! How long have we known each other, Renn? You _always_ get that wrong! _Honestly_, Renn!"

"What do you want, Rashiel?" Renn sighed, "it is nice to see that you are back safe from your Dragon-catching, though wearing men's clothes for some reason, but I am trying to _consider_ something… something to do with Liandrin…"

"Tattletale? Galina's little pet pussycat? Spider-squasher? What of the trull?"

While waiting for Renn to answer (a long wait, most probably!) Rashiel dug about in her belt-pouch… string, sharpening-stone, tinder, flint, poison, comb, lace handkerchief, rouge… where _was_ it? Ah, there, down at the bottom. A little crumpled perhaps, stained with blood, even, but legible no-doubt… well, she was no Queen's Messenger! If the exalted Lady Ellythia wished a letter delivered to her friend at the Tower that was _not_ screwed-up into a ball at the bottom of Rashiel's belt-pouch, then she might pay the exorbitant price demanded by a road-courier! Which she could doubtless afford to, by racking rent from her starving tenants and forcing young children to toil in her salt-mine!

Rashiel had been a maidservant before she was kidnapped and delivered to the Tower bound hand-and-foot by that miserable old Harfor woman, and did not much care for Noblewomen, from what she had seen of them. She had only ever met one whom she liked. Ysmet Quintara of House Mitsobar. You could not help but like a Noblewoman who consistently put scars on the faces of other Noblewomen! Who had an even worse temper than _hers!_ Ysmet was different from the rest and, according to her last letter, currently sharing her bed with a Gleeman! So, of all the Noblewomen she had encountered, only one that she actually liked. Well, perhaps one-and-a-bit, counting Ellyth!

Renn sighed again. "What of the trull indeed? I suspect her of... well, I am not exactly _sure_..." Renn trailed-off as her attention drifted to the crumpled missive that had been thrust unceremoniously into her hands. She broke the wax seal, imprinted with the head of a snarling wildcat, and smoothed-out the paper, eyes moving over the neat lines of script, delicately scribed in an unmistakeably feminine hand.

"Suspect Liandrin of _what?_ Being a scheming fishwife?"

"Scheming, certainly... just let me read this, and then we shall speak of it..."

"Somewhere else, where one is _permitted_ to speak, would be nice!"

Renn did not seem to mind the state of the message, she had just been reading a letter in a _much_ worse state by the looks of it… Rashiel glanced at it whilst Renn perused Ellyth's letter. Her Old Tongue was poor, but it appeared to be about a bottle of wine... that had been stolen from a King? It dated from around the end of the Trolloc Wars, was addressed to the Amyrlin Seat herself, a woman Rashiel had never heard of... well, there were only full records of all the Amyrlins dating from the War of a Hundred Years – and not one of them a Red! Again, Rashiel wondered if she truly considered herself to still be of that Ajah... well, time would tell. There was something about a 'dirty Dragonlover' whatever _that_ was, but Rashiel could make out little other than this, so discarded the ancient letter idly.

"Be careful with that!" Renn snapped, clutching at the yellowed parchment, "it's very old!" She carefully replaced the letter in a brown leather folder crammed with similar scraps.

"What is all that stuff?" Rashiel enquired, though without much interest.

"The correspondence of an ancient Amyrlin who I've never even heard of, raised to the Seat from my own Ajah... I found it fallen down the back of a bookcase... but even though it's quite interesting, some of it, I can't even _concentrate_ because I'm too busy wondering about bloody _Liandrin!_"

Renn's voice had risen to a near-shout of exasperation by the end of this sentence and Aiden Sedai reappeared from behind a shelf of atlases, scowling darkly and fingering the hilt of her blade. Without thinking, Rashiel lowered herself wearily onto a bench, then rose abruptly with a hiss of pain, wincing. Renn glanced at her with concern.

"Are you alright, Rashiel?"

"_No!_ Can we please go somewhere else, before the _Atha'an Miere_ Sisters feed us to their pet fish? You can explain about Liandrin whilst you Heal me!"

"_Heal you?_"

"Shh!"

"Sorry Aiden Sedai! Very well, Rashiel... and you can perhaps explain why you're _dressed_ like that! You look like a-"

"_Sshhh!_"

"_Alright_, Aiden Sedai, we're _going!_"

The two young Aes Sedai emerged from the venerable edifice, reminiscent of great ocean waves, forever on the point of breaking, for all that the Library had stood intact upon this spot for three thousand years. The grounds of the White Tower were much busier than might normally have been the case, Rashiel considered... glancing to her left, she noticed two Sisters, their green-fringed shawls somewhat dusty, emerging from one of the doors set in the foundations, leading to the store-rooms that lay beneath the Library. They appeared to be arguing with each other. A trio of Warders exited another store-room further on, shaking their heads at the Sister's enquiries. Further Aes Sedai moved about the grounds with a questing aspect, their Gaidin following-on, and a detachment of Tower Guardsmen went trotting past.

"What is going on?" Rashiel enquired, "it is as though someone has kicked a bee-hive..."

"It's the _girls_, Rashiel. They've disappeared under mysterious circumstances!"

"What girls?"

"The four Andoran girls, of course – the two novices, one of them the Daughter-Heir no-less, as well as the bad-tempered Accepted and the other one, who sees queer visions!"

"Oh, the girl who dresses as a boy, she was pointed out to me before I boarded the rivership to Saldaea..." Rashiel glanced down at her own apparel and pulled a face. "Yes, well... what of them? They have run away, I would suppose?" Rashiel certainly had, a few times!

"That is what _some_ seem to think..." Renn muttered cagily, then lowered her voice conspiratorially, "but I have my own ideas about _that!_"

"I am sure that you do. What is that thing in your ear, Renn?"

"An ear-ring, of course!"

"Will you tattoo your hands and wear oilskin trews whilst neglecting a blouse, also?" Rashiel smirked.

"You're a fine one to talk, in your coat and britches! You look silly! Though your hair isn't as much of a sight as usual, to be fair. Where did you get that rather dirty apparel from, anyway?"

"From _him_."

Rashiel nodded toward a spreading willow tree set in the Library grounds. Loitering in the shadows beneath its drooping branches stood a tall young man wearing a long, shabby coat – and so obviously _not_ looking in their direction that he might have been shouting the fact that he was associated in some way with Rashiel! He had reddish hair and waxed, Murandian moustaches, was fingering the Heron-marked hilt of his sword a little nervously.

Renn peered at him curiously. "Hmm. A handsome, well set-up young fellow, except for that bristly thing on his face."

"Oh, I quite like it."

"But who is he?" Judging by the fond way Rashiel was eyeing the young man, Renn could certainly _guess! _Always some fellow or other on her arm – where did she find the time to hunt male-channellers?

Rashiel smiled. "Dagnon?" Her smile increased as her pale eyes moved to Renn's face, to gauge her reaction. "Why, he's my _Warder_, of course!" And Rashiel nodded with satisfaction, pleased with herself, because she had done something that was difficult to accomplish – she had rendered Renn speechless!

The Brown Ajah quarters were even more deserted than usual, which pleased Rashiel. She had come to see Renn, did not intend to stay in the Tower overlong – if her suspicions were correct then it was hardly a safe place for her to be – and was happy to avoid the notice of any other Aes Sedai. Particularly Red Ajah... though the clothes certainly helped.

Renn's quarters had more of a lived-in air to them than usual, and were starting to take on the same cluttered, untidy aspect as her abandoned study. Discarded stockings lay upon the floor, the doors of cupboards hung open, silk robes thrown carelessly over the backs of chairs...

Rashiel removed the baggy, long-skirted coat with relief, letting it fall to the floor, and sat down on Renn's bed with a grunt of pain, pulling off the ill-fitting boots. She wore no stockings underneath.

"Can I borrow some clothes from you, Renn? Nothing _too_ garish, mind!"

"Hmph. I do not favour garish garb, I prefer to think of it as _distinctive!_ But one of my gowns should fit you across the bust at least, though it might be a little long in the hem..."

"Then again, it might be a little _tight_ across the bust and _loose_ about the hips..."

"Or the other way around!"

Rashiel grinned – about to protest that _her_ figure was slimmer-yet-bustier! – but instead she yelped, raised a bare foot, cursing and rubbing at her heel where there was now a small red mark. There appeared to be red stripes across her calf, also.

"Ahh, something just _nipped_ me!"

Renn knelt, reached under the bed and retrieved her exotic Sharan _tortoise_ from where he had been lurking, holding him up so that his short, scaly legs walked impotently upon air for a few steps. She stared into his small, myopic eyes.

"Bad _tortoise_," snapped Renn, "bad!"

"Well, at least it wasn't a bloody hairy great spider sinking its fangs into me," Rashiel observed, eyeing the _tortoise_ curiously, "though what difference does one more hurt make on top of _this?_" And Rashiel slipped out of the rolled-up men's britches and overlarge shirt. She wore nothing beneath, not so much as a shift. Renn frowned. She could see more red stripes that looked like they had been left by thin whips, crossing Rashiel's forearms – but then, Rashiel stretched out on the bed, lying face down. From neck to heels she was criss-crossed with the same angry red weals.

Renn moved closer, standing over Rashiel, staring with horror and slowly mounting anger at what had been done to the poor girl. Swiftly, she Delved Rashiel, confirming her suspicions – the injuries had all been inflicted with the One Power. A stormy expression settled onto Renn's customarily pleasant face, her light brown eyes glittering with anger.

Rashiel turned her head, looking over her shoulder. "Are you going to give me Healing or aren't you?" she demanded.

"Yes I am, Rashiel… and right after that, we are _both_ going to the Amyrlin!"

"Why? What does she have to do with it?"

"Galina has gone too far this time!"

"But it wasn't-" Rashiel got no further, arching and gasping as Renn's Healing weave settled into her. The marks faded, receded, disappeared. Rashiel slumped forward, burying her face in the pillow. Renn sat on the bed beside her and touched her shoulders, which were shaking a little… and abruptly, realised that Rashiel was crying! She had _never_ seen her weep before, not even when she got the news about her father – it had been almost as though she had been expecting to hear it. But Rashiel, sobbing... whatever had happened to her, Renn knew it must have been terrible.

When she Delved Rashiel, Renn would have been able to tell if she had other injuries, those that might be left by a man who had forced himself on her… but she did not. She had been whipped though, with whips of Air. Hence the instant suspicion of Galina and her friends, who Renn had merely thought of as cruel, until Ellyth had pointed out that cruel people are cruel because that is the way they are, whereas sadistic people are cruel because they enjoy inflicting pain on others.

Renn ceased her musing, guiltily aware that she should currently be comforting a weeping friend, so stretched out on the bed beside Rashiel and put her arms around her. A time later, Rashiel rose on her elbows, shivered, and went to choose herself a shift and robe from Renn's wardrobe. She wiped the tears from her cheeks as she did so, whilst Renn sat up cross-legged and, less effectually, attempted to do the same for her rather damp shoulder.

"Who hurt you, Rashiel?" she enquired, calmly, though her eyes were still alight with unaccustomed anger. "It was Galina, wasn't it?"

"No! She is capable of doing this, did as much to another girl once, I heard, but no, it wasn't her..."

"I hope that one day Galina meets someone even nastier than she is and gets a taste of her own medicine! Then who..?"

Rashiel smoothed a pink silk shift down over her hips, frowning at how well it fit, then muttered; "Darkfriends, Renn, Friends of the Dark tortured me... they have been dealt with now, and I really do not wish to discuss this any further!"

"But..."

"The less you know the better, Renn, for your own good, though you said you were thinking of leaving the Tower… _you_, leave the White Tower? Yes, and Sea Folk women will learn modesty also! Don't you have any stockings _without_ stripes?"

"Of course not! I like stripes."

"Well, I do not." Sighing, Rashiel tugged one of the offending silken garments further up her thigh, before continuing in more serious tones; "but if you ever _do_ leave Tar Valon, Renn… my advice would be to stay away for as long as you can… I cannot speak of it, but there is something... _bad_ here."

At which, Renn immediately embraced the Source and wove a privacy weave.

"You're referring to the Black Ajah, of course."

Rashiel looked at her suspiciously. Renn sighed.

"I'm not stupid, Trollop! By the way, I am perfectly well-aware that your novice-name is _not_ 'Trolloc' I always just say that to annoy you! But as for the Black... _two_ Amyrlins dying in one year and so much other evidence of foul play going on at the heart of so many things, False Dragons, the Aiel War… _obviously_ the Black Ajah exists, there can be no other explanation! Shrina agrees with me, whereas Ellyth was convinced of their existence long before she even came to the Tower!"

"Well of course she bloody was, she's a _Whitecloak!_ The only problem was, she seemed to think _everyone_ might be a Darkfriend! You know, when we were novices I once caught her Ladyship in my room, searching for implicating things about me, though I do not know what they might have been. Souvenirs of a lovely visit to _Shayol Ghul?_ A little chalk sketch of myself, standing next to Ishamael, smiling and waving? When I demanded to know what she was doing, instead of making up a silly falsehood like most would, Ellyth just said; 'I ask your pardon for searching your room, Rashiel, but I suspected that you might be a Friend of the Dark, yes? I have found no evidence of this, as yet, so perhaps you walk in the Light…' "

Renn giggled, then put a hand over her mouth, looking guilty. "Sounded _just_ _like_ her!" she mumbled.

Rashiel snorted. "After coming-out with _that_, Ellyth tried to swan past me like some cool Noblewoman in the Tarasin Palace, as though _I_ were the one trespassing in _her_ room! So I tripped her and I… well, I did one or two things to show her that you should not go expecting a woman of Ebou Dar to take being called a Darkfriend lightly! Though she fought back rather ferociously, for a Lady…"

"That was in her first year," Renn protested, "Ellyth mellowed after that…"

"Yes, she only thought that the _Red Ajah_ were Darkfriends, and still does!"

"Well, she doesn't think _you_ are…"

"That's generous of her, even though I'm barely a Red at all… why, because of the failure to find Darkfriend things in my room?"

"No…" Renn grinned. "Ellyth told me that the best way to spot the Darkfriend is to look for the nicest person in the room, the one who is smiling a lot… then look at their eyes… and if their eyes are _not_ smiling, but remain cold and observant, as though one person is watching the room and everyone in it whilst another person is being pleasant and talking and so forth…"

"What does this have to do with _me_ not being a Darkfriend?"

"Ellyth said that you were far too unmannerly and ill-tempered to possibly be one!" Renn shrugged. "She said that you sometimes smile with your eyes, though, when they do not look sad."

"Bloody Whitecloak! _She_ is rude and bad tempered, not I…" Renn smiled. "She did do my hair though… for all that I did not ask her to…" Renn grinned. "Stop smirking at me, Bookworm, or _you_ will be the one that needs Healing!" And they both smiled, recalling the last time Rashiel had said _those_ particular words...

In addition to the battle with Ellyth, Rashiel had fought Renn once, when they were novices, and had _not_ won on that occasion. Though they embraced and made-up afterwards, and Renn even Healed Rashiel's black eye and split lip. Rashiel had known many boys (many boys indeed!) growing up, and had observed how sometimes they would fight each other, and having got that out of the way, would seem to become friends afterwards… she had always thought it stupid – until she found herself doing it also!

Renn's mother had kept an Inn at Northharbour for a while, after her husband fell in the Aiel War, and had exercised an iron discipline over her rowdy clientele – a more loving discipline over her only daughter also, combined with some rather odd instructions. In addition to the usual motherly fixations with deportment and modest behaviour, she had taught Renn how to fight with her fists! This skill had come as something of a surprise to Rashiel, but only the _second_ time Renn bobbed easily under her full-armed roundhouse slap and punched her squarely in the eye! She had not realised that the small, shy girl was quite so _dangerous_, or she might not have been so rude to her! Renn was a very quiet, peaceable young lady usually – but when angered, if using the Power was not a recourse, then she always had her left hook!

"Though Ellyth did show me a useful weave or two… as did I, not wishing to be beholden to her… well, I have brought you her letter, as I said I would, so now we are even. _Ill-tempered?_ Bloody prudish Whitecloak! I _know_ she is your friend, Renn, so I have always avoided speaking of Ellyth in front of you, but-"

A loud commotion from the hall outside – shouting, threats, the screech of steel on steel – the unmistakeable sounds of men being foolish! Renn rose from the bed whilst Rashiel pulled the door open. Dagnon and Jabal were occupying the hallway just outside the bedroom, blades bared, swords crossed!

"Dagnon, what in the Wheel are you doing?" Rashiel demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

"This barefoot fellow attempted to push me aside, Rashiel!"

Jabal scowled, turning to Renn. "The Shorebound buffoon with the unsightly thing sprouting from his lip tried to stop me from entering your quarters, Renn!"

"You did not identify yourself! Perhaps you misremembered to put on your stockings and shoes this morning, Sea Folk brigand?"

"Hah! I _do not wear_ shoes or boots or saddles, for they-"

"_Sandals_, Jabal," Renn put-in, helpfully.

"Yes, thank-you, Renn Sedai, _sandals_ – for they are all equally foolish – as is that waxen thing beneath your nose, Shorebound mud-licker!"

"How dare you, sir! Why-"

"Stop it, both of you!" Rashiel shouted.

"But he-"

"It was not I-"

"Hush this instant, or I'll paddle the pair of you bright red!"

Renn frowned, joining Rashiel in the doorway. "Now really, Rashiel, if anyone is going to give _my_ Warder a good paddling, then it should be me!"

Jabal scowled further... but then noticed that Rashiel Sedai was, after all, clad only in a thin silk shift and stockings that looked rather like the sort he often obtained for his wife, and could not stop himself from engaging in a moment of quiet appreciation.

"Ahem!" The quiet appreciation ended abruptly, Jabal glanced apologetically at his disapproving wife. Dagnon noted his Aes Sedai's state of undress and glared at Jabal whilst motioning furiously for Rashiel to clothe herself. She just eyed him levelly, and crossed her arms. This engendered further quiet appreciation, naturally.

"Why don't you go and choose yourself out a _robe_, Rashiel," Renn suggested. "Not the one with the snakes on it, mind – that's my favourite!"

Rashiel sighed. "Well, if I must, I must... though I think that I should rather wrap myself in the curtains!" She blithely ignored Renn's scowl and noted the men's attention. "What are _you_ two looking at?"

"Nothing, Rashiel."

"Not a thing, Rashiel Sedai."

"Huh!" Rashiel turned, sashaying over to the cupboard. "Very well, Renn, you attend to your Warder, I shall attend to _mine_."

Jabal blinked, eyed Dagnon.

"You have been bonded? You are Gaidin?"

"Yes, I am. What of it, fish-eater?"

Jabal grinned. "Why, in that case, _you_ are the fish, not _I_... fresh-caught fish!" He frowned – as did Dagnon, though for different reasons – and turned to Rashiel, who was glancing down with distaste at the bright green, silken robe she had slipped into, embroidered with silver squirrels and acorns in some profusion.

"But are you not of the _Red_ Ajah, Rashiel Sedai?"

"Mind your own flaming business!" Rashiel snapped, though her face coloured a little. She turned to Renn. "That reminds me... I can't exactly squire Dagnon about the Red quarters... you're from the City, Renn, I wondered if you might perhaps know of a cheap room for rent?"

Renn blinked. "My mother lets-out rooms, though I should not like to subject the poor fellow to _that_..."

"There is the room above my boathouse?" Jabal suggested.

Renn nodded thoughtfully. "Perfect! He can keep an eye on your precious sailing boat while we are away, Jabal..."

Jabal blinked. "We are going somewhere?"

"Indeed we are. I just need to work-out _where_..."

* * *

><p>The small owl sat on the uppermost branch of a tall elm, large eyes fixed on the stone slab, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, that lay below. In her study above the Library (she had finally got the door open, with some help from Jabal) Renn occupied the sole chair not bearing a burden of books, eyes tightly closed. She raised her hand to her mouth, then lowered it. If she started yawning now, she would never make it through the night – the second night running, that she had done this. She hoped it was not a waste of time, and felt vaguely foolish... not to mention slightly concerned that old Verin might object to the younger Brown Ajah Sister borrowing her owl without permission. But Verin Sedai had not returned with the others from Shienar and even her Warder – last seen riding west as fast as he could spur his horse – had not known where she had disappeared off to this time. Really, Verin Mathwin did more travelling than the rest of the Brown Ajah put-together! Renn had always felt vaguely troubled by this, the senior Aes Sedai putting her rather sedentary life to shame... well, she needn't feel troubled for too much longer!<p>

Renn's musing was interrupted, as abruptly a silver line extended down the centre of the stone slab, the owl's sharp, night-attuned eyes picking out the way the stone leaves seemed to move in a nonexistent breeze... and the Waygate opened. After a moment, Liandrin emerged, pulling her dark mare behind her by the bridle, a pack horse on a lead-rein following-on. Renn watched closely, through the owl's eyes, as the Red Ajah Sister – alone and bereft of those she had led into that dangerous place – mounted her steed and trotted away toward the long fence that surrounded the Ogier artefact and thence, presumably, to the Tower Stables.

Renn scowled, though the owl did not. So... she was right! Liandrin and the girls had left Tar Valon through the old Waygate that most had forgotten was here – but that was forbidden, wasn't it? – which was why no-one had seen them depart via one of the more usual routes. But where had they gone? And _why?_ So _that_ was what Liandrin was up to! Whatever it was. But even so... it _still_ did not make sense. And where were the girls? Lost in the Ways? Or somewhere else? Liandrin's motives for her actions remained obscure... should she confront her? Denounce her? No, not without proof... the Hall and Amyrlin would hardly allow an owl to bear witness! But at least Renn now felt gifted with motivation of her own, almost like that precious 'Cause' Ellyth was always talking about, or even Shrina's ridiculous Horn-Hunting!

Renn knew exactly what she was going to do. She would return the missing girls to the Tower and bring Liandrin down! She finally had a good enough reason to leave Tar Valon and see some of the World – and when she got back with the girls, would be acclaimed as a Heroine into the bargain! Perhaps when Liandrin was publicly castigated for the crime of novice-napping or whatever it was she was up to, Renn would get to ply the birch? It would be Liandrin's own fault if she did. She shouldn't have squashed Renn Faltrey's _spider_ and expected to get away with it!

As the owl beat its way back to the open window of Verin's study on soundless wings, Renn's eyes opened and her good-humoured features firmed in determination. But first... clearly, she was going to need to investigate a bit further.

* * *

><p>The Head Stableman's eyes narrowed with suspicion, his lips drawing back from largely toothless gums with disapproval – there was someone sneaking around in the back of the stables – in the back of <em>his<em> bloody stables, no less! Old Quilly reached for his sharpest pitchfork and approached with at least some of the stealth of a Warder, since one of the friendlier Gaidin had shown him how to put his feet down soundlessly when he was just a young stable-lad… and then ceased his stalking progress and stood still, feeling vaguely disappointed. It was only one of the Sisters, over by the sleeping horses. At this time of night? And he had been rather hoping that fat Andoran rogue had come back for more punishment! He had not enjoyed _his_ hour on the Chair of Remorse, that one!

The Aes Sedai seemed to have found whatever she was looking for anyway, there she went, off on her mysterious White Tower business… odd. There was a discarded curry-comb lying on the straw by the big, dark mare, which was tossing its head a little before resuming its slumbers alongside the other sleeping horses. Why would she be _brushing_ the horse? Did she wish to apply for service in the stables? They could use the extra help, since a couple of the lads had been lured away by the glamour of being a Tower Guardsman instead of a stable-boy... young fools! There was no better life than that of the stables! A shame that Min girl had run-off, she was a good enough hand with the horses, he had been thinking of offering her a job...

But Old Quilly had lived and laboured in the Tower long enough to know that whatever the Aes Sedai were up to, it was none of his concern. He was just a hard-working stableman, let the Sisters sneak around at night brushing each other's horses all they wanted, it was not _his_ place to object. The Head Stableman stumped back to replace the pitchfork on the rack. _Especially_ since it was just that showy mare that Lady Fishguts liked to trot about on, with her nose stuck up in the air...

Of course, Liandrin Sedai had absolutely no idea that Old Quilly's private name for her was 'Lady Fishguts…' and he had no intention of letting her find out – there were already plenty of geldings in the stable and he had no great desire to become one of them!

* * *

><p><em>Nesune Bihara, Aes Sedai, dipped t<em>_he thin nib into the pot, carefully tapped off the excess ink, then finished sketching the rest of the petal onto the clean white page in front of her. She held the dried flower up to the light, comparing it critically with the drawing. Yes, that looked about right… a shadow fell across her and she frowned, looking up. It was that talkative Accepted who she had stood in the corner for chattering a few times, but an attentive girl when something held her interest, and with a good brain in her head, when she could be troubled to apply herself… though why, instead of the white, banded dress, was she wearing that odd, yellow silk gown with red butterflies embroidered all over it? She looked a little like an Illuminator… an Accepted of the White Tower dressed like _that?_ Was it a Feastday again already? No, she was sure that it was not… commensurately, this girl – Renn Faltrey, that was it – could _not_ be Accepted… oh yes, she remembered now, young Renn was raised to her own Ajah a few years ago, wasn't she? Dear me, the new Sisters seemed to be getting younger and younger!_

"Yes, Renn?" Nesune Bihara enquired, eventually and a little impatiently.

"Sorry Nesune Sedai," said Renn, "I just wondered if I could show you something?"

Whilst pulling out her handkerchief, Renn smiled. She had come to the Botany Repository with steps that dragged, knowing a whole morning (perhaps a whole _day_) of leafing through volumes stuffed full of cramped writing and carefully rendered sketches, stretched ahead of her… If they had been history books, then that would have been different, of course… but Renn had little interest in the world of inedible plants beyond which of them she thought looked nice, or smelled sweet… but then, she had seen Nesune Bihara! What luck! You didn't _need _the books when you had old Nesune around!

Nesune Bihara sighed, set aside her pen, and gazed at the small, spiky cockleburs that Renn had wrapped-up in her handkerchief... there seemed to be some dark strands of what looked like horse-hair, also.

"Could you please tell me what these are, Nesune Sedai?"

Nesune examined the spiked seed pods cursorily and without much interest.

"A fairly dull form of wild-maize, _dor'__allar'zante_ in the Old Tongue… why, what did you _think_ they were, girl? _Ostrich eggs?_"

Renn felt a bit crest-fallen. "Oh… I didn't recognise them as being anything that grew in the vicinity of Tar Valon… I suppose that they are fairly wide-spread?"

"Of course not!" responded Nesune, sounding a little shocked by Renn's crashing ignorance, as though _every_ Sister of the Brown Ajah _besides_ her should be fully acquainted with the many thousands of different kinds of seed-bearing grasses! "This variety is quite rare, and is found only on Toman Head, naturally!"

Nesune retrieved her pen, snagged a fresh sheet of paper from the pile and took another carefully-labelled dried flower from her box full of carefully-labelled dried flowers. She spoke without looking at Renn.

"Now, I need to _get on_, if you _don't_ mind!"

Renn nodded, pleased. A whole morning saved, she could go and look for Conaia Sedai's journal right away, instead of having to trawl through all of these dull plant sketches... she even felt less tired now, despite the sleepless night spent watching through an owl's eyes and sneaking around in the stables!

"Thank you for your assistance, Nesune Sedai."

Renn even curtsied, with surprising grace, before striding away. She wore the Shawl too, and did not really have to append 'Sedai' to Nesune's name anymore than she had to curtsy, but it didn't hurt to be polite. Besides, they might _both_ be Aes Sedai, fellow Sisters of the Brown Ajah, but Nesune Bihara had been happily (and a little obsessively) cataloguing plant and animal life since before Renn's grandmother was even born! So there it was…

* * *

><p>After unlocking the gate in the fence with a thin flow of Air, since Liandrin had not yet troubled to return the key to the Guard's Barracks, Renn rechecked the journal, reached out and pulled the trefoil leaf from the Waygate, replacing it a little higher up. For a moment, nothing seemed to be happening... but then, the Waygate came to life. Just as the journal said it would! Behind her, Jabal muttered softly under his breath as the intricate stone leaves rustled, as the twin doors opened. A dull silver skein gleamed faintly before them, reflecting their faces darkly. Whatever it was, walking through it proved to be an unpleasant sensation.<p>

Renn went as far as the first Guiding, Jabal pacing her nervously, blade out, though these 'Ways' of the Ogier seemed empty and deserted. Not to mention _decayed_. In his other hand, the Sea Folk Warder held a burning torch aloft, though the flickering light seeming to penetrate the darkness on all sides only so far, before being swallowed-up by the void.

Renn examined the delicate silver script on the ancient stone, checked the journal again, and nodded, satisfied. This was _definitely_ going to work. Jabal made a grumbling sound, clearly wishing to go back to the Gate, returning thence to the Ogier Grove, which had the virtue of being neither disquieting nor disturbing. Either that or he was complaining about his feet again... he was currently experimenting with boots and stockings – perhaps the remarks of Rashiel's new Warder had stung him? Renn smiled at her husband, brightly. Her voice echoed back to her, sounding hollow for all that they seemed to be surrounded by an infinity of nothingness.

"Well, it looks like young Min was right – I _am_ going on a journey, after all!"

* * *

><p>Jabal regarded the damage glumly. If only that accursed barge had got out of his way in time! The bow of his beloved <em>Rivershark<em> was slightly stove-in on the port side, the fine paintwork marred. It would require at least three decent strakes of seasoned oak to put it aright, and that thieving land-swine at the yard would doubtless attempt to swindle him again! As if it were even possible for a Shorebound to do so, with a trained apprentice cargo-master of the _Atha'an Miere!_ But much as he enjoyed it, Jabal did not have time to devote a whole afternoon (and perhaps some of the evening also) to the necessary Bargaining this would involve. Besides, he had little ready coin and had not dared tell his wife about the accident yet, so could hardly ask _her_ for the money!

"I can put that right for you," offered Dagnon. Despite being a Lord and the last scion of an ancient and noble line, he still came from what had become an extremely impoverished House, and was not unaccustomed to manual labour. "I used to help the men in the sawmill from time to time, and am no stranger to carpentry."

Jabal eyed him doubtfully. The fellow was no Amayar... he wished he could get one of _them_ to do the work – though they never left the isles – since it seemed he would be otherwise engaged. The fellow seemed genuine in his offer, however.

"It seems only fair, now, as you are letting me stay in your boathouse. Why, the Inn's here are ridiculous expensive, even compared with Illian!" Dagnon sighed, at mention of the place where he had taken his Hunter's Oath.

The Southharbour home of Jabal's _Rivershark_ – rented from a vile thief for a swingeing seven silver marks each month (though Jabal had spent much of a day Bargaining his prospective Landlord down from_ twelve_) – was more of a shed than a house, but the room above was cosy enough when the wind was not in the east, the bed comfortable. Jabal had suspicions about the use that bed might be put to – this young Murandian Lord could imagine this to be a mere lodging, but Rashiel Sedai no-doubt had it in mind as some kind of a lover's bower! Still, as long as there was _someone_ here to keep a close eye on his beautiful craft, he did not care.

Dagnon pointed at the beautiful craft. "Have you thought of fitting another rowlock at the stern, there, over the rudder – in that wise, with your sails reefed, you can use a long sweep to propel this fine vessel?"

Jabal blinked, and looked re-appraisingly on the young Lord, who was also now one of his Swordbrothers, apparently… the fellow did not seem as ignorant of the water as most Shorebound. He had said something about being accustomed to river-boats at least... Jabal was not sure why, but felt himself warming to him.

"What was your name again, Shorebound Lord?"

"Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois. And yours, sir?"

"Jabal din Sudim of the Takana… though I stand Warder to Renn Sedai, now."

"And your salt-name? If one not of your illustrious Clan might enquire?"

Jabal blinked. This was no _ordinary_ Murandian it seemed… the fellow had _manners!_ Well, apart from the insulting remarks about his lack of shoes and stockings, but he supposed he had been rude about the moustache _first_... hadn't he? The fellow seemed skilled with a blade also, perhaps there would be time to spar before they went through that accursed Waygate thing... but Renn had told him all about the people of Murandy, they sounded as bad as the argumentative and bloody-minded folk of Clan Catelar! This one seemed to differ from that description. Jabal suspected that the young Lord was something of a romantic, and probably still believed in concepts such as 'decency' and 'honour.' _Poor fool!_

"_Lionfish_, though you may call me Jabal Gaidin, since we are now in the same boat on that score, it would seem." Jabal could not keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"And the same boathouse! Lionfish? Did you kill one?"

"No, I have tried a few times but they are too big. I killed a shark though, a great 'white shark' as we call them... but there is an annoying Windfinder of Clan Somarin who has already taken that salt-name, so I had to choose another. _She_ has never killed a white shark with only a knife, but took the name anyway! _Women!_ I shall have to kill a lionfish someday, though... somehow..." Jabal blinked. "It is a long story, in any case..."

"The best ones always are. A good name nonetheless, I wish I might call myself 'Lion' at least! The _Atha'an Miere_ salt-names have always fascinated me, ever since I read Guisep Mathenos's _My Adventures with the Sea Folk_ as a boy..."

Jabal winced. "That is not a very good book," he muttered.

Dagnon did not hear. "So I suppose that I am now Dagnon Gaidin…" he mused... "it sounds strange, without the honorific... would they let me name myself 'Dagnon _do_ Gaidin' do you think?"

"When I asked if I could be 'Jabal _din_ Gaidin' they said 'no.' And laughed at me. The Shorebound often find what I say humorous, for reasons I cannot fathom."

"Well enough. Dagnon Gaidin it is."

There was a pause, in which Jabal's dark, nearly black eyes lingered curiously on his Swordbrother, though he was too polite to actually ask, of course.

Dagnon noted this, and grinned. "You are wondering what a Red Sister is doing bonding a Warder, I would suppose?"

Jabal nodded emphatically. Then pressed a heavy iron key into Dagnon's hand. "The boathouse is yours, the rent paid until the end of the year and I think-" (Jabal spared a fond-if-concerned glance for his beloved _Rivershark_) "-_I hope_ my beauty will be safe in your hands whilst I attend my _other_ beauty and defend her on her travels… _but I must know why Rashiel Sedai did it!_ Renn says that she has always been impulsive – but I do not think a Sister of the Red Ajah has ever done _that_ before!"

"I would be glad to tell you of our meeting and the style in which Rashiel, that is to say, Rashiel Sedai, bonded me... but she has sworn me to secrecy regarding it." Dagnon Gaidin spread his hands apologetically.

"Gaidin hold no secrets from each other," Jabal stated, portentously. "For example, since you are now my Swordbrother, I shall tell you that I am _married_ to my Aes Sedai!" Jabal smiled. He had only told Atual and the Twins this. For all that they had not seemed as shocked as he hoped they would be...

This Lord Dagnon certainly did not either! "Yes, I know."

"You... know?" Jabal frowned.

"Rashiel told me." Jabal's frown increased. "It is common knowledge amongst Renn Sedai's acquaintances, apparently, or they at least suspect? Except for someone called 'Ellythia'... apparently she has no idea! But in any case, Rashiel mentioned that you were wed to Renn Sedai and that this fine sailboat was your wedding gift to your bride."

Jabal felt his ire ease at the compliment, but was still confused. Renn must have _told_ Rashiel… who else had she told? She wasn't supposed to _tell_ people! Of course, it was different with him, as Atual Gaidin had always taught him that a Warder held no secrets from his Brothers. But women were such terrible _gossips!_

"You are a lucky fellow, she seems a fine wife. If one should find oneself no longer seeking after the Horn of Valere..." Dagnon sighed, then brightened, "but, quest unfulfilled, bonded to a Sister of the White Tower instead... under such circumstances, it is well to at least be in love with your Aes Sedai!" Dagnon sighed again, gustily. "As I am. And I hope that Rashiel shall change her mind and accept my suit in time, for all that she becomes fearsome angry with me when I merely mention marriage, even though I have raised the subject but thrice this morning..."

"Whilst we await our Aes Sedai, you shall tell me the manner of your meeting Rashiel Sedai (including why you had to lend her some of your clothes) and I shall tell you of how I came to know Renn Sedai. To pass the time more convivially, I believe that there is a... yes, in here..."

Jabal had vaulted nimbly up into the boat and now reached into the hidden locker beneath the wheel, which he knew Renn did not know about, taking out the wine bottle he had wished to smash against the bow when he re-launched his beautiful _Rivershark_ (though he would take a sip for himself and pour some into the water also, in remembrance of the dead.) He held it up and Dagnon noted the Red Bull on the yellowed, parchment label, and smiled appreciatively, tugging at the waxed points of his moustache.

"You have wine from _Murandy!_ Not one of the great vintages by the looks of it, but certainly the first _proper_ wine I have seen in some time… these foreigners, that is to say, these _other_ Shorebound, who do not have the good fortune to hail from the vine-lands of the River Storn... why, they do not seem to understand what wine even _is!_"

* * *

><p>Renn finished her packing, ensuring that Conaia Sedai's journal was tucked into the top of her belt-pouch where she could refer to it easily, hefted the heavy scrip on its shoulder-strap and left her study for the last time in quite a while, she should imagine, closing the door briskly on the soft rustle of a collapsing pile of papyrus. Oh well, she would clear it up when she got back – it was not as though she could <em>read<em> any of it, since the oddly-illuminated pages had come by way of the Aiel Waste from Shara, a strange, curvilinear script that seemed to travel the wrong way across the page, indecipherable by all. Except Jain Charin! Well, according to him, at least...

After latching the door and setting a small warding that would let her know if anyone trespassed whilst she was away, Renn turned, and abruptly came face-to-face with Danelle. Large, blue eyes that seemed not-at-all vague held hers for a moment.

"Oh... hello, Danelle," Renn responded, awkwardly. For a moment, she considered asking the younger Aes Sedai of her Ajah if she wouldn't mind looking after her _tortoise_, as she had to go away on a long journey... but those eyes changed her mind. The old Danelle would have been only too happy to, but now... the girl would be as like as not to kill and dissect the poor creature!

Renn released the Source, though reluctant to. Danelle did not respond to her greeting beyond a thin smile that contained little warmth and even a hint of menace, before gliding past and down the hallway, silent as the grave. Renn frowned after her. Danelle had certainly changed! She even _looked_ at people now, when before her eyes had always seemed to be on the floor, when her nose was not buried in a book... Before. Before young Kariss perished.

They had found Danelle's Warder in the Ogier Grove, where Gaidin would go to work the forms sometimes, if the practice-yard was too busy. He often went there even when it was not, as he was a rather shy specimen, lanky and awkward, except with a blade in his hands. He and Danelle had seemed to get on well enough though, when she noticed his existence, he had always been carrying stacks of books about for her... the accident was such a shame. Kariss Gaidin had been found beneath a large, fallen tree-branch, his back broken, and Danelle had taken to her bed in grief for several weeks. When she finally emerged from her quarters, a profound change seemed to have come over the young Brown.

Renn had never heard that the shock of a Warder's death, the severing of the bond, might engender a change in personality to _this_ extent – normally, an Aes Sedai would experience extreme sorrow and even morbidity, perhaps be left with a more melancholic temperament than before – but Danelle seemed to have almost become a completely different person! And not a very nice person, either...

As if overhearing Renn's thoughts, Danelle paused at the end of the hallway, turned back, and smiled again. Renn shivered a little as the girl drifted from sight. There was something about her eyes – they seemed too knowledgeable, like the eyes of a much older Aes Sedai, a tutor or a scholar of some kind, a mature woman who had seen terrible things. Things that she had done herself, even! But that was ridiculous... it was just her imagination, influenced by the atmosphere of the White Tower these days... Rashiel was right about that, at least. Renn was glad to be leaving, if only for a while. The Tower seemed to be becoming a darker and more dangerous place... or perhaps it was just that the World was?

* * *

><p>Jabal eyed the beast distrustfully. It looked back at him with its big, long-lashed eyes, its large head shaped a little like that of the sea-horse, after which it had no-doubt been named. Though it was a land-horse. A Shorebound beast, with big teeth and an uncertain disposition. Jabal leaned forward and the creature's ears moved back a little. Was that a good sign? They were confusing, these horse-beasts! He held up the apple and it snorted.<p>

"I am going to give you this apple now, horse… but if you bite me, I guarantee it will be the last apple that you ever eat… and my angry face will be your last sight, also!"

"Stop taunting the poor thing and just give it the bloody apple!" Renn snapped, exasperated. Jabal eyed her as uncertainly as he eyed the horse. The land-horse. "It's _not_ going to bite you, I asked Old Quilly for the quietest one he had!"

"Lion there is a good, steady animal…" said the Groom, reassuringly.

"Did you say 'Lion', Horse-master?" Jabal interrupted.

"Yes, Sword-master… that being the horse's _name_…"

Jabal raised his eyebrows… and regarded the animal more favourably. Lion. Like his Salt-name, though without the 'fish.'

"Since she is now my new horse..." Jabal began to say.

Renn eyed her Warder-husband, exasperated. "She is a _he_. And how can it be your _new_ horse when you didn't _have_ an old horse, unless you count that creature I hired for you when we rode out to Dorlan to visit Aunt Megg that time, the one you fell off when it ran away _and_ I had to pay that cheating thief at the stables twenty silvers when the beast was barely worth _eight_, and it probably just found its own way back there anyway…"

Renn ran out of breath. And noticed that the Groom was grinning at her. Renn frowned, and the spotty youth's face became solemn. He went to fetch her horse, and the packhorse with its load of lanterns and oil as well. It was the same beast of burden Liandrin had used, so at least one of their party would be familiar with the journey they were about to make!

Jabal was scowling at the story that he had asked his Aes Sedai-wife to _not_ repeat in front of other Shorebound, and _especially_ not in front of any _Atha'an Miere_. But he turned back to the horse, and gave it the apple, gingerly trying to keep his fingers away from the eager, chomping teeth.

"A new ship needs a new name," Jabal declared, "and though you are clearly no ship, beast… your Salt-name is now… _Lionhorse!_"

The returning Groom made a snorting sound, passed Renn the bridle of her own, sturdy brown gelding and swiftly found reason to be at the other end of the stables. Renn smiled fondly. She loved the way Jabal could be amusing without even knowing he was being amusing, simply by being who he was… a fish out of water! She slipped her arm through his and brushed her cheek against his face a moment, barely having to go up on tiptoes, for though of more than average height for a Sea Folk man, her husband was not land-tall by all but Cairheinin standards… well, she did not care, she considered him a nice, compact package – better than being married to some great, hulking fellow who you needed a step-ladder to kiss!

Jabal was still staring mistrustfully at the horse, which clearly wished another of the apples it could smell in his pocket. Renn dug into her scrip and passed her husband his folded fancloth cloak, which she had found beneath the bed. He looked at the garment dubiously, before sweeping it over his shoulders.

"_Cabalaeor_ sounds nicer," Renn commented. Though _lae'or_ (pronounced in the correct way and not converted into the Vulgar) seemed to be just one of the many words that stood for 'lion' in the Old Tongue, and might even be a much older word from one of the ancient, lost root-languages, that were occasionally alluded to in the _very_ old texts. She had always preferred this particular term to the others, though technically it meant that Jabal's steed could be described as 'horse so golden as the King-lion's mane…' Well, its coat _did_ have a yellowish sheen to it... but the Old Tongue was so bloody complicated – and that was just the small part of it that remained, the rest having been lost! What Renn would not give to have someone from the Age of Legends to talk to, just for an hour! She even knew what her first twenty questions would be!

"_Cabalaeor_ it is, my delicate sea-jelly..." Jabal agreed, absently.

Renn smiled. She wasn't entirely sure what a sea-jelly _was_, but Jabal had assured her that they were very beautiful, graceful creatures. Except on land. A bit like him! Renn sighed. Oh well, there was no use putting it off any longer...

"Come, Jabal. The Ways await..."

* * *

><p>Rashiel was by the Waygate, her incongruous, secret Warder at her side, there to see them off. Whilst the Gaidin clasped hands – they seemed to be getting on better with each other now – she gave Renn a warm hug. "Are you sure you want to do this?"<p>

"Yes, of course... apart from rescuing the girls from Toman Head and rubbing tattletale Liandrin's face in the muck... well, it's a valuable opportunity to continue the work of Conaia Sedai."

"Who is she?"

"A Sister of my Ajah who conducted research on the Ways some seven-hundred years ago..." Renn produced an ancient, battered calfskin notebook from her belt pouch, waving it authoritatively. "This is her journal... there is even a rudimentary map... and guess who was looking at this and making notes last week, according to Zemaille Sedai... bloody Liandrin!"

Rashiel looked rather doubtful. "It is a good job she didn't borrow it."

"It's a reference text, you aren't allowed to take it out of the library."

"Then what are _you_ doing with it?"

"I waited until Zemaille wasn't looking and then stuck it up my sleeve, of course! Um... Rashiel, before I go, I've got a sort of gift for you..."

"Is it in that box you are holding, Renn?"

"Erm... yes. _Here!_"

"What is it? There is something alive in here, I can feel it moving around."

Renn's voice became flustered, for all that she knew Rashiel liked animals. "Aisling Noon would probably take care of him but she is away on Green Ajah business and I don't trust Danelle and Nyein Sedai refused (and threatened to make soup out of him if she saw him chewing another book) and I just can't find _anyone else_ to look after my-"

"Ahh! It is the strange crabby lizard that pinched me!"

"He's a _tortoise..._ they come from Shara..."

Rashiel shook her head stubbornly. "_Tortoise?_ I do not care for the name, I shall call him the mysterious Sharan crab-lizard instead!"

"Land-turtle," Jabal muttered, under his breath.

"That might take you a long time to say – he answers to the name 'Pelateos' by the way. Well, I _think_ he does... he likes chopped carrot and cucumber and lettuce and cabbage – though don't give him too much of _that!_ And make sure he doesn't sleep all of the time... he needs exercise... and he likes to be talked to... and..."

"Pelatos?"

"_Pelateos_. Well, I had to call him _something_, and _Willim of Maneches_ was already taken." Renn gave her sturdy brown gelding an affectionate pat.

Jabal snorted. And Renn thought that he had given _his_ horse a stupid name?

"And he does look like he is pondering, doesn't he?" Renn chuckled.

"I don't know. He had better not bite me again... or peck, or whatever it was he did... oh alright, Renn, I'll look after your silly pet while you're away, but I'm not keeping him forever! If you're not back before the year is out, then I shall take him off looking for you!"

"Fair enough."

"So who is this Pelateos after whom you have named your crablizard?"

"You've never heard of Pelateos, author of the seminal _Ponderings?_" There was a note of disbelief in Renn's voice.

"Of course I bloody haven't! I'm a Trollop, remember? Not a _Bookworm!_"

"Honestly, Rashiel... you really should have chosen _Green!_"

* * *

><p>"Conaia Sedai mentioned a darkness upon the Ways, of which the Ogier would not speak, but didn't say anything about them being <em>this<em> dark..." Renn's voice broke the silence, which hung heavy about them, but for the horse's hooves crunching on the pitted surface of the seemingly endless bridge. They were the first words she had spoken for some time.

Jabal raised the pole-lantern higher, though this did little to banish the gloom. The Warder bond gave him the ability to remain active long after most men would have been asleep on their feet, whilst Renn was accustomed to forcing herself to stay awake for days at a time when her studies were at a particular level of intensity... but even so, after what felt like several days of travel through these strange and forbidding Ways, they were both beginning to feel the fatigue encroach upon them. Even the horses were stepping slower, for all that Renn had channelled strength back into their muscles during a brief halt on what the journal referred to as an 'Island.'

Time seemed to move differently here, seeming to drag at them, as though they were partially removed from the endless turning of the Great Wheel – perhaps they were? Though according to Conaia Sedai's research, the Wheel turned _faster_ in the Ways. It might have only been a day, but felt as though they had been travelling for a week.

"Should we stop to sleep, Mistress?" Jabal enquired, on seeing Renn yawn extravagantly a while after they had left yet another Island complete with its corroded Guiding, had walked their horses further over the ancient, crumbling ramps and bridges. Renn lowered her hand from her mouth – her mother had always insisted on this, a lady should not yawn at all, but if she must, should certainly not expose her tonsils to the rest of the world! – and frowned.

Of late, her husband who was also her Warder (she always thought of it in _that_ order) had begun to call her 'Mistress' without appending the words 'of my Heart' to the end of this, even though he knew she liked to be called that... this plain 'Mistress' was a new development. There were two possibilities – perhaps Jabal was being more careful about revealing that they were more than just Aes Sedai and Gaidin (there had been slip-ups in the past, with Myrelle, for example) since their marriage _was_ supposed to be a secret. But at the moment, they were quite alone – perhaps in the loneliest place it was possible to be in. Did he think the horses would tell?

Either that or this 'Mistressing' was something Jabal had picked up from Atual Gaidin, who she knew her husband looked up to. He had been Jabal's main instructor in Shorebound ways, of which tutelage Renn had always approved, since every woman knew that Far Madding produced by far the best husband material! Not that she could see Atual ever getting married, his spouse appeared to be his sword, as was often the case with the older, grimmer Warders...

"Should we rest, Mistress?" Jabal repeated, in that voice he used when he thought she had not heard him the first time – calling her 'just-Mistress' _again!_

"I heard you the first time, _Master!_" Renn snapped.

Jabal blinked. Why had his wife just called him 'Master' without appending the customary 'of my Soul?' Was she upset about something? It was difficult, to be a husband and try to figure out why your wife behaved the way she did sometimes...

"There will be another of those island things up ahead," he suggested, "do you wish to sleep awhile, wife?"

Renn shook her head curtly, but felt her mood improve slightly. At least Jabal had called her 'wife' which, while a little on the brusque side, was at least an improvement on 'Mistress.' But still not so good as 'Mistress of my Heart' _or_ 'Finder of the Winds of Passion,' that one wasn't too bad either... though why Jabal would compare her to a Sea Folk Windfinder which she believed to be the title of a woman who was an expert navigator of some kind, was beyond her. What did she have in common with a Windfinder of the _Atha'an Miere?_ Whenever she asked Jabal about Windfinders, he became oddly reticent, even though his sister – the one who was not a Sailmistress – held this title. In fact, he clammed right up. Just like a clam!

"Mistress, I think I see-"

_Again_ with the Mistressing!

"Oh shut-up and chew this, fish-face!" Renn snapped.

Jabal blinked. He was _not_ remotely fish-faced! His beloved wife and Aes Sedai (he always thought of it in _this_ order) must be angry indeed, to name him fish-face! She did it but rarely... he thought that it must be a play on his salt-name, which included the word 'fish'... his feelings were unhurt, since he knew that he did not have a face like that of a fish – and it did not make sense anyway, there were many kinds of fish in the seas, many indeed, and they all had _different_ faces! As did those lesser fishes of the rivers, a great disparity in their features, also! Did shark and pike have the same face? No! They did not.

Besides, Renn nearly always apologised later, even though Jabal explained patiently that she did not need to, every time... it was nowhere near as bad as some of the things his mother had called his father when she was angry with him about something, which she often was, though when in a better mood, he had often been 'Master of my Cargo' in a _less_ unaffectionate tone of voice...

"I should... chew this?" Jabal wondered, looking down at the gnarled, brown, twisted thing that had been thrust into his hand. It looked like some kind of a Shorebound plant root, like the '_ginger_' they had brought back from Shara that time, though it was clearly an acquired taste and had not sold as well as the tomatoes. It looked extremely unappetising, in fact.

Renn took another piece of root out of the pouch she had produced the first from and popped it into her mouth, chewing methodically. Jabal shrugged, and did likewise. The root proved to be extremely bitter and very difficult to eat!

"You won't like the taste," Renn told her husband, having carefully waited until it was in his mouth before telling him... Jabal had already found this out and fixed an accusing gaze on his wife.

"What is this horrible thing you have told me to chew?" he demanded, in a rather muffled way.

"Something to keep us _awake_," Renn mumbled, her mouth equally full, "because I for one am not spending a moment longer in this horrid place than I have to! Sleep, here? Bad idea!"

"Very well, but what _is_ this root-thing, wife? It tastes fouler than the flesh of the stink-fish!"

"My _fist_ will taste even worse if I hear any more of your back-talk! _Husband!_"

Jabal sighed, and forced himself to chew faster. Renn reluctantly swallowed what was left of her root, likewise forcing herself to not make a face. The _haroc_-root of Shara was noted for its bitterness, but had useful properties, none-the-less. Renn had got used to the taste since she first began to use it, to help her stay awake for long periods, since it had a strongly anti-soporific effect. Actually, she did not think that Jabal really needed it, a Warder needed less sleep than an ordinary man – but a marriage, like a bond, was all about equal division of responsibilities. So if she had to chew the beastly stuff, so did he! Serve him right for not bothering to call her 'Mistress of my Heart' when he knew she liked it!

Renn relented a little as they came to the Island. It was exactly like all the rest of the Islands. Though the Guiding looked a little more intact than some of the others. Her Ogier was adequate to translating some of the words and filled in the gaps left by the journal – though Conaia Sedai had been very thorough. A combination of both had brought them this far, at least. But in the case of an illegible Guiding, twice now she had been forced to guess at the correct bridge, and on one of those occasions she had guessed wrong, and they had to backtrack...

"No, we are most _definitely_ not stopping to sleep," Renn murmured distractedly, whilst comparing the curling silver script with that in the notebook, "Conaia Sedai frequently mentions 'eyes' on her in the journal... and after all, as you know, Jabal, she went into the Ways to explore one day, just like she usually did, and as I told you – she never came out again!"

They left the Island and plodded on for a while through the endless black, the clop of the horse's hooves echoing hollowly – there should not have been an echo, but for some reason, there was.

Jabal's tone was... careful. "Mistress of my Heart... you did not mention that Conaia Sedai never came out again," he said, having fully considered the implications of this additional information... which he would have much preferred imparted to him _before_ they entered these accursed Ways!

"Oh, did I not? I thought I did... well, she didn't, anyway! Completely disappeared, that was when the Brown Ajah declared the Ways off-limits for study purposes!" Renn shrugged, completely failing to note her husband's rather condemnatory gaze.

"Conaia Sedai... disappeared?"

"Yes she did! Just walked through the Waygate one day and was never seen again. Mayhap she stepped out of another Waygate somewhere else for a breath of fresh air and some passing Whitecloaks (sorry Ellyth, not you!) riddled her with arrows before she could ask for directions... but _maybe_..." Renn lowered her voice forbiddingly, "maybe something lives in the Ways... something that doesn't like Aes Sedai..." – she narrowed her eyes alarmingly – "_or_ their Warders!"

Jabal sighed. And drew his blade a little, checking that it was razor-sharp. A little unnecessarily, since it was Power-wrought, and was _always_ razor-sharp. But it was all he could do, in answer to some hidden danger he had not been aware of... and running his thumb carefully along it gave him something to focus upon whilst he resisted the strong urge to shout at his wife!

"That is why the Ogier abandoned this place, due to the hidden danger in the darkness!" Renn added, spookily, gesturing at the gloom encroaching upon them.

"Abandoned..?" Jabal muttered. The first he had heard of _this_, also!

* * *

><p>Renn reined Willim of Maneches to a sudden halt, her brown-eyed gaze become penetrating in an instant, the usual vagueness absent... the pack-horse followed-suit and Jabal tugged firmly on his own reins as though hauling on a reefed sail, leaning back in the saddle with an air of intense concentration, and managed to make his own horse stop walking also... though several paces further on. Balancing the pole-lantern on his stirrup-iron, he glanced back over his shoulder. Renn's gaze was still fixed on the small, grey, shrivelled object that lay on the pitted stone before the hooves of her gelding, the article that had so suddenly claimed her attention.<p>

"What does that look like to you, Jabal?"

"It looks like a dead leaf, curled up at the edges..."

"Yes... yes, it does, doesn't it..." Renn heeled her mount back to a walk and tugged at the lead-rein of the packhorse, passing by Jabal with a troubled look on her face. He kicked ineffectually at Cabalaeor's sides and followed-on awkwardly when the animal chose to resume its slow pace, seemingly of its own volition. A short distance further, they reached a Guiding, and after a brief consultation of the journal, Renn led them down the pale path through the darkness, the white line in the pitted stone that extended to the stone slab of the Toman Head Waygate. Which, like that of the Tar Valon grove, had two triple-lobed spaces set amidst the profusion of carved herbage sported by other trees – both of which were empty of the stone trefoil leaf by which the gate might be opened.

"Aaah!" shouted Renn, her cry immediately swallowed-up by the surrounding darkness, "I might have known! That sneaking, cheating, conniving..." Renn ran out of what little breath not expended by a scream of pure frustration and shook her head.

"What is amiss, Finder of the Winds of Passion?" Jabal enquired, having finally noticed that his wife found being called 'Mistress' objectionable.

"_Liandrin_ is bloody amiss, and then some! The vinegar-faced harpy must have taken the leaf out when she came back this way – that was it back there! Dead... useless! The way is blocked!"

"But..."

"The trefoil leaves, they are alive in some manner, though seemingly worked of stone... removed from the Waygate, they die..." Renn's mouth dropped open, aghast. "Imagine!" she exclaimed, in tones of disbelief, when she was able to speak again, "wilfully destroying a rare Ogier artefact! Hard to believe, even of Tattletale!"

Jabal dismounted in ungainly fashion, having to hastily tug a booted foot loose of a stirrup that did not seem to want to let go, to avoid landing in an untidy heap, as he had already managed to do once before... it was these accursed heels, they kept getting caught... He approached the Waygate cautiously, then placed his tattooed hands flat against its intricately-carved surface and gave an experimental shove.

"_That_ won't work, without the trefoil-leaf, nothing short of the One Power will open a Waygate." Renn sighed. "I would have to use _extremely_ concentrated weaves of fire to saw a hole in it..."

Jabal blinked. "You could do that, then," he pointed-out.

"_Not_ without wilfully damaging a rare Ogier artefact!" Renn snapped. "Besides, it would be _irresponsible_ – the gate would be open to all from the other side, a small child or some poor animal could wander in here and get lost!"

Jabal sighed. And resumed his saddle with reluctant awkwardness. The way the accursed beast turned itself in slow circles whilst he did so – as burning usual! – made the process more lengthy and difficult, but as a youth, Jabal had regularly been sent aloft to reef sail in all sorts of atrocious weather, so he set his teeth and persevered.

Renn was consulting the journal again. "We shall just have to backtrack to the nearest alternate Waygate, and emerge there... we can resume the journey to Toman Head on more regularly-travelled roads..."

"Good," growled Jabal, feelingly, resisting the urge to thump his foolish, still-circling steed on the head, "I have had my fill of this place... _and_ this horse!"

"Hmm. It looks as though if we return to the second Guiding, we can either go to a Waygate outside of an Almoth Plain _stedding_... or possibly Allorallen?"

"Where, Mistress?" asked Jabal, distractedly.

"_Of your Heart!_ Bandar Eban, as it is called now."

"Ah, a fine, deep harbour. And when we are there, wife, perhaps we might take _ship_ to Toman Head?"

* * *

><p>"Alright!" Renn wailed, some time later, "I admit it! We're <em>lost!<em>"

Jabal groaned softly, but then straightened his momentarily slumped shoulders and tried to put a better complexion on things. "We are sure to see another of those white lines soon..." he pointed-out.

"We haven't even managed to find an intact _Guiding_ in two days!" Renn pointed-out despondently, "or is it three?"

"I am not sure," Jabal grudgingly admitted.

Time seemed to move differently here, the only hint of the temporal the slow, steady pace of decay. According to the journal's rudimentary map, the path to the Almoth Plain Waygate lay beyond a particular Island, but the curving ramp that led up to it had come to an abrupt end near the top, the remaining section sheared away in some ancient fall. They could see the Island faintly, hovering disconcertingly above with seemingly nothing holding it up, yet with no way to reach it. They had retreated hastily back down the broken ramp, before the rest of it decided to tumble into the yawning, endless blackness that lay beneath. Renn was sure that there were other routes to that Island... but if there were, they were not mentioned in the journal. So, they were forced to backtrack again and seek for Allorallen instead.

The map indicated a particular bridge from a particular Guiding as the path to the Waygate in the long-destroyed grove where the Ogier stone-masons who built the beautiful ocean-side city of Allorallen were wont to experience at least some of the peace of the _stedding_. Though the City that had once been the key trading port of ancient Jaramide was long-gone, of course, blockaded and later burnt by the Dead Sea Fleet, the Shadow's Darkfriend 'navy' composed of _Atha'an Miere_ renegades and sea-brigands. This had happened in the middle of the Trolloc Wars, and the city that had grown from the ashes of Allorallen had a different name.

But the Bandar Eban Waygate, which yet had _its_ trefoil-leaf, had swung only part-way open, and then stopped, immovably. Light-grey stone blocked the twin stone doors from opening further, stone with silvery streaks. Jabal held the lantern as close as he could, between the gap, examining the great, pale blocks, fused together with mortar and sulfur. "I recognise these stones – this is the _wall_ of Bandar Eban!" Whether the Domani had chosen to incorporate the Waygate into their defensive wall for reasons of security, or simply that it was in the way and had proved indestructible, remained unknown – but they would clearly not be exiting here.

So, after these disappointments and discouragements, Renn rather unwisely chose to go 'off the map.' There was an abandoned _stedding_ within reasonable distance, according to a brief entry in the journal, it was either that or trying for the Waygate at Katar, which might also prove to be bricked-up like a defunct window! A shame, for Katar was noted for its fine book-markets, and she had always wished to visit the place. Perhaps on the way back, with the girls, they could take a detour? So, they turned 'north' although in the Ways, there seemed to be no such thing as direction.

And now, days later, they were thoroughly, irretrievably, lost.

When the bridge eventually ended and they reached yet another Island, they were both exhausted and it was wordlessly agreed upon to rest. Jabal cautiously gave the last of the fodder to the horses, who seemed almost too tired to eat, and lowered the wick on the lantern a little, to preserve their diminishing supply of lamp-oil. Food was one concern, but when _that_ ran out... neither of them were keen to too-closely consider the image of spending their last hours in this place, plunged into pitch darkness. Renn sat down despondently, squinting in the low light, taking a last look through the journal, just in case there was some hint or clue of a way out, beyond those they had already tried. But she knew that there was nothing. The pages were starting to fall out as a result of her frequent and frantic searching.

It was Jabal who noticed the bones first.

"I am _so_ sorry for bringing you here, Jabal," Renn murmured contritely, discarding the journal, before sighing; "it is all my fault." After a moment, when no answer came, she raised her eyes to her husband, who was staring at something. "I _said_ it is all my fault!" she repeated, pointedly.

"What do those look like, wife?" Jabal enquired, ignoring the golden 'I-told-you-so' moment that can feature so prominently in married life. He pointed.

Renn rose, frowning. She had condemned them both to a miserable death, and yet it seemed she could not get her husband to be so thoughtful as to _blame_ her for it!

"They look like bones." Renn approached, reluctantly. She was in no mood for bones. It was grim enough in here, already...

The skeleton of a horse, by the looks of it, scraps of leather all that remained of saddle and harness – but there, half-buried beneath, partially wrapped in a cloak and the faded remnants of a gown... other bones. Human bones. Ancient and pathetic remnants of... who? Would another incautious traveller in this rightly-avoided place one day view _their_ bones and wonder who _they_ had been? But then, as Jabal knelt and pulled the tattered cloak aside, Renn noticed the slim gold circlet about one of the yellowing finger-bones, pointed reptillian teeth closed upon a serpentine tail.

"Oh dear, Jabal... I think that we just found Conaia Sedai..."

* * *

><p>"Even here, in this dark place, may the Mother's embrace welcome you and the Hand of the Creator shelter you, Conaia el Tichaan, Aes Sedai of the Brown Ajah."<p>

Renn spoke sadly, then frowned with concentration. Bright, yellow flames burst to life and soon, the bones of the Aes Sedai were reduced to fine grey ash. It was not much in the way of a funeral pyre, but better than nothing.

Jabal produced a small wine-flask from about his person and sprinkled a few drops onto the guttering flames. "For those who have gone beneath the waves," he muttered. They had not wanted to leave this place without making some sort of attempt at honouring the memory of the woman who had saved their lives. It was only a gesture... but gestures, like symbols, could be important.

Renn rubbed at her eyes. "Ouch! The weaves don't work near so well in the Ways and it's much harder to do anything with the Power... there is some sort of barrier to struggle through, that feels all oily and tainted... it's like carrying rocks up a hill on your back, when you can usually just roll them straight down!" Renn smiled. "Though I think I may have found a solution to that," she added, patting the pocket of her robe.

Though it remained unclear quite how she had died, Conaia Sedai had proved to have three items of interest about her person. In addition to the contents of her belt-pouch; a gleaming white brooch and an ancient, yellowed chapbook containing the rough notes of her journal, there was that which had still been gripped firmly in a skeletal hand. The carven staff of some ebon wood she had never seen before was certainly very fine... Renn held it up with satisfaction. There was a certain residue to it, she sensed, though much faded with the passage of time...

Renn felt a little guilty about what had been, to all intents and purposes, corpse-robbing... but only a little. The Brown Ajah were a practical, unsentimental lot, after all, and she was sure Conaia el Tichaan would have understood. If Renn fell afoul of whatever lay in the Ways, she would certainly not begrudge a Sister of her Ajah coming along and helping herself to useful items! She regarded the long staff of a dark, smooth wood she had never seen before, complacently...

"Is it an object of the Power?" Jabal wondered of the staff, "a _tri'angral?_"

"_Ter'angreal_. Oh, no, it is just a stick – but I would say that it has certainly been used in tandem with _saidar_... it is an old practice, employing such as a focus for one's weaves, and little done anymore... though I believe that Moiraine Sedai still uses a staff on occasion? Well, I shall also, at least until we are free of these Ways..." Renn hefted the staff. "After all, it _is_ an awfully nice piece of wood," she added, "and it is reassuring to have something weapon-like in your hands, in a dark and forbidding place such as this – I have noticed how you keep fiddling with your sword, Jabal! – and Channelling aside, if I need to then I can always _hit_ someone with it!"

"Are you as dangerous with a quarterstaff as you are with your fists, wife?"

"Dangerouser! So just you watch-it, husband!" Renn gave Jabal a poke with the stick and he grinned, holding up his tattooed hands in surrender.

Renn had also taken Conaia Sedai's Great-Serpent Ring, to be returned to the Tower. But the most important find, to their survival at least...

"Additional notes, not yet copied into the journal!" Renn enthused, slipping her other acquisition into a pocket and leafing through the chapbook excitedly, though not without undue care, as the pages were very old and liable to crack. She paused at one page in particular, her finger tracing the lines of careful, neat notes, the faithfully-reproduced Ogier script. Rising, Renn went over to the Guiding, Jabal following on, pole-lantern raised high. Painstakingly, though with a certain feverish haste, Renn compared the dull, silver script on the Guiding with that carefully inked onto the page. They were identical... which meant...

"Yes! This shows the path to a nearby _stedding_... _we're saved!_"

* * *

><p>A final Island, a final Guiding... and there it lay, up ahead... the Waygate complete with its trefoil leaf, the white line in the pitted stone leading up to the broad slab of carved stone, the only point of relief in the darkness that stretched out all around. A darkness that proved, for once, to not be empty.<p>

Their only warning came from the horses, who sniffed the air – the hint of a foul, animal reek came to their less sensitive noses – and then whinnied with alarm. Harsh cries, the thud of booted feet on stone, as well as the click of hooves and claws, and from all sides, the Trollocs charged. Fortunately, the horses were Tower-trained and did not bolt, but Jabal slipped down from the saddle anyway, lowering the lantern to the floor and drawing his blade – he could barely ride the storm-cursed beast, he did not intend to attempt to fight from its back!

"_Shadowspawn!_" Renn shouted, rather unnecessarily, then dropped the pack-horse's lead-rein and slipped her hand into her pocket, raising the ebon staff above her head, grim concentration setting her features. The Trollocs were almost upon them, spiked swords and axes raised, bestial faces writhing with hatred and blood-lust.

Jabal prepared to dance amongst the enemy, the dance of death, selling his life dearly so that his wife could escape through the Waygate... but Renn had other ideas.

"Down, Gaidin!" she shouted, whirling the staff in a circle above her head. A ring of yellow flame appeared around her and the horses, Jabal crouching just in time to avoid having his hair singed, since it stood head-high to a man... and neck high to a Trolloc.

Renn gestured again with the staff, a sweeping, forward-motion – and the flaming circle expanded rapidly, sweeping out on all sides. Harsh screams as the disc of flame came into contact with the attacking Trollocs, overlarge heads with twisted, animal features thumping to the rough stone, scorched and decapitated corpses left lying in the ring's fiery wake. A few late-comers to the ambush avoided the pervasive slaughter and retreated back into the shadows, but most did not.

Jabal regarded the circuit of smoking, dismembered bodies. "What was _that_, wife?" he demanded, shocked. Renn slumped in her saddle a little, then straightened.

"Ring of Death. Something I learned that I probably wasn't supposed to, though I hoped never to have to use it. But it should have been _twice_ as big – it's these accursed Ways, affecting _saidar_... some of them got away!"

"It was still very... thorough..." Jabal eyed his wife with new-found respect. He knew Renn could be dangerous with her fists, but had thus far seen her use of the One Power confined mostly to occasional Healing and the re-heating of cups of cold tea – he had never considered Rings of Death! "A burning ring of fire!" he exclaimed, impressed.

"If they wanted to take us by surprise, they shouldn't have left their ugly writing carved all over that last Guiding," Renn observed, rather primly.

Jabal nodded. "I am proud of you, wife." Renn beamed. "Your first taste of battle, and you did not flinch! Why, you have the heart of a-"

The Myrddraal leapt from the darkness without warning, dark blade sweeping toward Jabal's throat. The _Atha'an Miere_ Warder parried, blade moving like quicksilver as sparks flew, rolled smoothly beneath the Fade's return stroke and cut one of its hamstrings before leaping aside, narrowly avoiding a vicious thrust. The Fade limped after him, snarling with hatred and Jabal prepared himself for a long duel. This was not the first Myrddraal he had fought. They could be killed, of course, but it took time. Thank the Light he had removed those foolish boots and stockings!

But again, Renn had other ideas. A much smaller Ring of Death appeared around the Myrddraal's neck, not unlike a fiery collar. The Fade snarled, touching it – it's finger smoked and blackened as it came into contact with the yellow flames. Renn motioned impatiently with her hand as she slipped down from her horse. This time, instead of expanding outwards, the Ring contracted _inwards_. The more acrid stench of burned Myrddraal flesh rose to join that of the Trollocs that lay about them in a broad circle.

The Myrddraal's head thumped to the floor and rolled to a stop at Jabal's bare feet, lips still writhed back in a snarl – and attempted to bite him! Jabal hopped back, preserving his toes from those snapping teeth. Perhaps there was something to be said for boots after all? Its beheaded body, he noted, was crawling about on the ground, fumbling for its fallen sword. Jabal seized the _Thakan'dar_-blade and tossed it into the darkness, the dark sword clattering across pitted stone – and the headless Myrddraal went limping off in that direction, looking for it! The eyeless gaze of its head did not perturb Jabal overmuch, but he wished that it would stop _talking _to him in its nasty, whispering voice!

"_Shai'tan take-you, human... the Great Lord... curse you... Swordman..._"

"May it please the Light, what does it take to _kill_ one of these things?" Jabal demanded, turning toward his wife – who had _another_ Myrddraal standing just behind her, reaching for her neck with a pale hand, its dark blade drawn back for the thrust that would surely end her life. Jabal knew that there was only one option open to him – his chance to use his particular skill – so he _threw_. Even as the spinning blade left his hand, he knew that it had been a perfect cast, his most skilful ever! But to his surprise, instead of sinking into its chest, the blade bounced off the Fade with a hollow sound and clattered to the pitted stone floor.

"Careful!" shouted Renn, ducking.

Jabal blinked as a long crack appeared in the Myrddraal's chest and it... shattered. Collapsing into splintered chunks of frozen Halfman, like a block of... ice?

Renn glared. "What the bloody, burning ashes do you think you're doing throwing that _sword _at me, husband?" she grumbled. "You nearly took my head off!"

Jabal stared in shock. The Myrddraal's legs were still there, rooted to the ground, but the rest of the creature lay in dark splinters about Renn's feet.

"What did you _do_ to it, wife?"

"The horrid thing tried to grab me, so I did the same thing I do in summer, when a certain lazy-yet-handsome Sea Folk fellow wants to drink his fruit-punch cold, but cannot be bothered to walk as far as the ice-house! I did... _that_. Though on a larger scale, and a great deal colder." Renn staggered a little and Jabal moved to support her. "It certainly takes it out of you, channelling in the Ways..."

Leaving Renn to lean against her staff whilst she recovered her strength, Jabal retrieved his sword, feeling abashed and hoping that the priceless ivory hilt had not been damaged. Perhaps he _should_ cover it with pigskin? He held the pole-lantern high and scanned the darkness around them.

"I can hear them, skulking around back there..." Jabal muttered, occasional glimpses of bestial shadows shifting back and forth, just beyond the circle of light.

"I hear them also... and something else... is that... wind?"

Cries of terror rose from the Trollocs in the darkness, in response to the slowly rising sound of the approaching wind. Renn frowned. "Poor Conaia Sedai mentioned the sound of _wind_ several times in that last volume of her journal," she muttered, "and she didn't seem to think that it was a _good_ thing..."

"_Machin Shin..._"

"What was that, Jabal?"

"I said nothing, it was the Myrddraal, or rather, its head... may we go now?"

"_Black... wind_... _comes..._"

"Silence, you!"

"Fascinating! The Fade's head is _talking_ to me!"

"_Filthy... Firewoman... Machin Shin... take you!_"

"Being rude to me, even!"

"Ignore it, wife! May we _go?_"

"_You are... dead... Shai'tan take you!_"

The Trollocs were coming closer, encroaching into the circle of light, their fear of the black wind clearly greater than that of the Aes Sedai. A third Myrddraal was with them, dark sword in one hand, a long, cruel whip in the other.

"I don't think I have the strength to do what I did again," Renn muttered, "but since we can't have them chasing us through the Waygate..."

More flames arose in a circle about them and the horses, about the Waygate, though sedentary this time, a fiery yellow wall between them and the Shadowspawn.

"There, that ought to do it," Renn commented, tying-off the weave.

The wind had risen to a scream now, and within it, fell voices whispered of vile things. Beyond the flames, the Trollocs threw back their heads and howled whilst the Myrddraal cursed and lashed at them with the whip...

"I think I have had _quite enough_ of the Ways," Renn shouted over the horrid cacophony, and promptly plucked the trefoil leaf from the Waygate, replacing it a little higher up. The carven leaves began to writhe, a line appearing down the centre. Renn raised her voice further, to be heard over the roar of flames, the screams of Shadowspawn, the menacing voices in the wind. "Any more of _this_ sort of thing and I shall go mad as the Dragon!" Jabal nodded fervently.

The Waygate opened and, dragging the horses behind them, Renn and Jabal promptly and with great relief escaped back into the World of the Wheel. Where men with crossbows awaited them, some of whom proved to have nervous trigger-fingers.

* * *

><p>"Once again, I cannot apologise enough for my men shooting their bolts at you, Renn Sedai. I have put that young fool on latrine-duty for a month!"<p>

"Oh, that is quite alright, Captain Mazeen. No harm done. These things happen. After all, since you say that Myrddraal and Trollocs exited the Waygate the last _nine_ times it opened, you were only right to suspect that on the _tenth_ occasion..." Renn blinked, gazing down into the deep pit that was being dug before the Waygate – any further exeunt by Shadowspawn would be greeted with a five span drop onto sharpened stakes, it seemed! Jabal hovered at her side, a hand resting on his hilt. Still scowling.

"There were some Draghkar also, Renn Sedai."

"There were? Um... you needn't dig that pit, you know. I can lock the Waygate... well, take out the leaf from the inside, and..."

Some of the shovel-plying sappers looked up hopefully at this, but the old Captain-of-Archers was shaking his head with regret.

"Forgive me, Renn Sedai, but his Lordship commanded the digging of the pit and if the pit is not here when he returns, my beard shall like decorate his lance! His Lordship wishes for the Shadowspawn to continue to emerge from these strange Ogier doors, so that we might kill them. His Lordship is greatly in favour of the killing of Shadowspawn in as large amounts as can be arranged. He favours pits also – why, up on the Border, he often digs deep holes in which to entrap the monsters of the Blight!"

"I see... how odd! So where _is_ his pit-favouring Lordship then?"

"His Lordship is up in the hills, leading his lancers on patrol. The peaks are aswarm with Shadowspawn, reportedly! I shall inform him of your presence on his return, doubtless he shall wish to wait upon you, to convey his respects."

"Where is he going to wait on me? In that tent?"

"That is _my _tent, Renn Sedai, and scarcely suitable accommodation for an Honoured Sister of the-"

"Of the White Tower, yes thank-you Captain Mazeen... I must say, it is nice to be up in the Borderlands (even though that was not where I had _planned_ to go) where you are all so respectful to Aes Sedai... why, down south, we're as like as not to get rotten fruit thrown at us!" Mazeen blinked, uncertainly. Renn sighed. Borderlanders were fine fellows who did an excellent job of guarding the Blight, but they had absolutely no sense of humour, in her experience. Hardly surprising, though, considering... "So... where _else_ would you suggest I await being waited upon?"

"There is a village to the south, I can send a man to escort you down to an Inn where you may rest..."

"An Inn! With _baths_, and _beds?_ What a wonderful idea, Captain Mazeen!"

As Renn and Jabal followed their guide away from the bivouac of Archers grouped about the Waygate, they passed a further pit, into which sappers were dumping the corpses of Shadowspawn, much pin-cushioned with crossbow bolts.

"_We_ almost ended that way!" Jabal griped. Their guide chuckled. He was one of his Lordship's scouts, a villainous-looking, fork-bearded fellow who answered to the name of 'Nevish.' He seemed respectful, however, answering Renn's questions readily enough with a deep and gravelly voice. The village was not too far away, apparently, they should reach it before dawn. Renn yawned extravagantly and behind her, Jabal seemed half asleep in the saddle. And would require Healing for saddle-sores, the bond was informing her. Poor boy!

"Where are we, anyway, Master Nevish? Saldaea, I would presume?"

"Yes Aes Sedai. The west, up in the foothills of the World's End peaks."

"Oh. That is some way distant from Toman Head... so which village are we going to spend the night in?"

"Seleisin, Aes Sedai."

"Seleisin? _Really?_ As in; 'a shepherd in Seleisin knows as well as I?' "

"Yes, that is what they say, Aes Sedai."

"I never realised the place even existed, though I suppose it would have to for there to be a saying about it. I shall have to find a shepherd and ask him a few questions..."

Nevish grinned briefly through his beard. "Oh, there are many sheep to be herded in these parts... and some of them think that they are people!" Their guide, who was from the Plain of Lances on the Kandori side, laughed harshly.

"Well, as long as the Inn exists also, I do not much care _what_ the place is called," Renn muttered.

"Aye, Aes Sedai, it is there... though you will mayhap find the Innkeeper and his people less than attentive!" And Nevish laughed again.

Renn blinked, then shivered as they seemed to pass over some invisible boundary – and found that she could no longer sense the Source. Jabal straightened in his saddle, clearly feeling refreshed by the mysterious aura of the _stedding_ – as did Renn, but it did not make up for the feeling of loss, of blindness that any Channeller experienced in such places. The place that Ogier had once called home seemed overgrown, deserted. Great Trees towered over their lesser brethren, which towered over them as they passed beneath. On the other side of the _stedding_ from the Waygate, they beheld flickering torches approaching in the darkness.

It proved to be several Saldaean soldiers leading a column of mules, each with large bundles of cross-bow bolts and other military paraphernalia constituting its load. Nevish exchanged a few quick words with them before they continued on their way up to the Waygate.

"I'm telling you, I saw what I saw!" one of the Queen's Armsmen was protesting to the others, as they passed. The others jeered.

"Riding through the sky in a basket!" laughed one.

"Aren't you too old to be scared of hags abroad in the night?"

"I saw what I bleeding-well saw, curse you!"

Jabal glanced curiously after them, though Renn's attention was fixed on something else – the flickering torchlight had gleamed upon something pale, nestling in the midst of a tangle of wild blackberry bushes. Something ancient.

"That's interesting," Renn muttered, eyeing the abbreviated white column. She embraced the Source and turned in her saddle as they rode past, eyes fixed on the circular stone, squinting at the eroded symbols carved about its base.

Seleisin proved to be even smaller than Renn had anticipated, the Inn at its centre a rather grim-looking place. The scorched husks of several burned merchant's wagons were parked to one side, and the flames had spread to two of the houses, which likewise stood in ruins. The village appeared largely bereft of villagers, seemingly replaced with a temporary populace of soldiers. Queen's Armsmen mostly, their tabards emblazoned with the Three Silver Fish of Saldaea. The grimness of the Inn was further enhanced by the rough scaffold erected in the courtyard, the half-dozen corpses dangling from it in a row, twisting slowly back and forth on hempen nooses. Three were women.

"Who are they?" Renn enquired, frowning with distaste.

Nevish spat. "Darkfriends, Aes Sedai. This place was crawling with them. When we rode into the village, most had already fled up into the peaks, but these who kept the Inn, they were all out in the barn on their knees before a Myrddraal, chanting a paean to the Dark One – condemned out of their own mouths!" Nevish nodded at the scaffold. "That is the Fade, up there at the end..."

Renn looked closer – the corpse swinging at the far end of the scaffold was taller and paler than the others, garbed in black.

"Goodness! It cannot be easy to get a Myrddraal to walk to the scaffold and consent to having a noose put about its neck?"

"Oh no, Aes Sedai, the Halfman was already dead when we hung it! His Lordship killed it... hard enough to do! Nevish doesn't want to think about how difficult it would be to take one of those things alive!"

They led their horses into the stable, and Nevish summoned two soldiers to remove saddles and provide feed, as the stable-boy was occupying the scaffold alongside the rest of the Inn's staff.

Whilst relieving Willim of Maneches of the saddlebags, Renn found herself staring at the horse in the next stall. Most of those in the stable were the small, agile mounts of light cavalry. This tall, graceful mare seemed out of place amongst them. The animal's ears swivelled toward her and the mare seemed to whicker in recognition. It _did_ seem familiar... where had she..?

"Whose horse is that?" Renn enquired.

"The mare, Aes Sedai? Came running down out of the hills a few days back. No rider, nor saddle neither."

Renn frowned. Where had she seen this pale horse before? In the Tower stables, that was where, though but rarely... and then, Renn realised;

"_Oh no_ – Eradore! That is _Ellyth's_ mare!"

* * *

><p><strong>Part II: Collam Doon<strong>

The view was very fine from up here, the air clear and chill, and in the distance, the striated ribbon of dark smoke from the signal fire rose into the grey sky. Arachnae Kirikil leaned cautiously over the side of the tough, wickerwork basket, examining the pale, fluted column that jutted from the rocky peak beneath. Arachnae shook her grey head slowly. She had no idea what it was. So much knowledge from the Age of Legends had been lost, that which remained often less than useless. Arachnae made a sound of impatient disgust – so much, that she did not know! The Draghkar glanced at her nervously, but their powerful wings continued to beat in a steady rhythm, the basket creaking occasionally. She ignored them. And yet, there was some knowledge that survived... knowledge that might prove useful. Very useful indeed.

Arachnae reached into her knitting bag, a dark article embroidered with silver ravens, and touched the thick leather folder. She smiled. The courier had brought it that morning, no ordinary road-courier, since he had come from somewhere north of _Shayol Ghul_ even, a place that she had heard whispered mention of but had never actually seen. The White Tower had its library… and the Shadow had theirs. Arachnae's smile widened. The depository of knowledge from whence _her_ information had come was much smaller, and more specific. And she expected that those who needed to be 'shushed' as many as three times in the Shadow Library were not merely asked to leave, but probably were fed to the Darkhounds in stead! Arachnae chuckled.

One of the Draghkar heard the sound and turned its head toward her inquisitively. Arachnae scowled. And addressed the bat-winged creature in the Shadow Tongue, a speech with which she was more than proficient. "_Keep your eyes on where you are going, vile thing_," she told it, loudly, so that it would hear over the rush of the wind, "_fly us into one of these mounts and before I hit the ground I will use the Power to turn you inside-out!_" The Draghkar flinched and lowered its dark gaze. Filthy creature. _Looking_ at her!

Arachnae tucked her woollen shawl closer about her neck – she had never quite mastered the technique of ignoring cold – and returned her attention to the view. But while her small, dark eyes took in the expanse of ravines and valleys drifting by below, she considered the position, as though what she were about were a game of stones upon an immense board. A board that lay below her, even. And though she had not lost a particularly important advantage in Seleisin, it was still an irksome setback, the Saldaean soldiers arriving when they did.

Arachnae had planned to travel up into the peaks in her peculiar contrivance on receiving confirmation that the Aes Sedai was caught, and not a moment sooner. The sudden appearance of the Queen's Armsmen had put paid to that notion. Again, she wondered if she was putting her head into a noose. Not with regard to the slip of a girl, she had escaped one trap but would surely be taken soon. But the village was compromised, and doubtless the Waygate also, by now. There would be no further reinforcements from that quarter, and the route from World's End was now barred. Well, for everyone else, it was.

Ah, now _that_ looked like the spot. At their steady approach, the wisp of smoke from the signal fire had grown to a thick black column that rose from the end of the valley below, a dark, broken cliff looming over it; twin peaks rising to either side of a ravine… _the Horns of Shai'tan_… well, they were there. Now, she would see.

* * *

><p>Ranim waited before the ravine, the lower half of his face obscured with a thick dust-veil, only cold, blue eyes visible above it. The jagged, split crag loomed over him. He was standing on a low pile of stones that comprised someone's grave. It did not bother him to do so, though he did feel vaguely disappointed – he had earlier moved enough of the rocks to verify the identity of the person who lay beneath. And had felt a touch of regret at seeing that long dark hair, streaked with silver in places. He had wanted to kill the Warder himself...<p>

Ranim had replaced the rocks carefully. He was not sure why he had done that... some residual superstition of the Travelling People, doubtless. But in so doing, he had discovered something of interest... well, two somethings, really, counting the blade. A small, well-balanced throwing-knife that he had found near the mouth of the ravine. It had what smelled like acrid Myrddraal blood staining the point. Ranim was currently using it to clean his fingernails, dividing his attention between that mundane task and the sky to the east.

A score of large, heavily-armed Darkfriends stood nearby, those that were not engaged with tending the signal fire; scarred mercenaries and merchant's guards. They kept a respectful distance from their tall, slender leader. They had seen what he could do. A few days before, they had watched while the Tinker youth killed a Trolloc twice his size and three times his weight. Using only a slim dagger. Ranim had taken his time about it, letting the Shadowspawn blunder back and forth, trying to touch him with its crude blade... slicing it here and there, carefully avoiding the major arteries, slowly bleeding the Trolloc to exhaustion before he finally finished it off, cutting its throat.

The other Trollocs had seemed impressed, had given the young Darkfriend assassin wary glances that seemed to hold respect while they butchered their erstwhile comrade... which had, itself, butchered one of Ranim's men. The previous night, it had defied its orders and killed one of the sentries, because it was hungry.

The Myrddraal that led the Fist had let Ranim kill the offending Trolloc, rather than executing the disobedient soldier with its own dark blade. Afterwards, it had looked at Ranim with the habitual loathing (mutual loathing, given Ranim's return stare) but oddly, the Fade had also nodded curtly to Ranim, an almost military gesture, as though from one officer to another... acknowledging that sometimes those one commanded had to be kept in line with harsh examples of the perils of disobedience meted out. Killing the insubordinate soldier slowly and cruelly in front of the others, was but one method by which this might be accomplished. Ranim had just stared coldly for a moment before he sheathed his dagger and turned to walk back to his own men, a deadly grace to his movements. Ranim had as low an opinion of Shadowspawn as did his Mistress. Even so, it had been a strange moment, with a sense of almost... recognition, to it.

Ranim was younger than the men he commanded, but they knew better than to question his authority, and not just because it had been given him by their Dread Mistress. He had set a few of his own examples. One of them, a big wagon-guard who could not take his drink, had cheeked Ranim, muttering something about 'not taking orders from a thieving little Tinker-boy.' Ranim needed the few men he had at his disposal, so did not kill the offender, simply took one of his eyes. He coldly told the whimpering guard that if he ever heard him speak again, he would take the other eye and leave him up in the peaks to wander until he died, or until the Trollocs found him. Something about Ranim's tone had been very convincing.

Ranim could just have beaten the fellow or given him a scar, taken an ear instead... but had not wished to. It had been an effective example for the others, who now seemed more willing to obey the cold, terse commands of the Tinker boy, who was certainly no ordinary _Tuatha'an_. But Ranim supposed that part of the reason he had been so severe with the merchant's-guard was because he had never much cared for his kind. On the road, whenever the wagons had been forced to halt near a merchant's train, there had often been trouble from the brutal, thuggish men who protected their master's wares for a silver penny a day. They sometimes tried to steal horses or molest a woman, when the dogs did not manage to keep them away.

Still, Ranim had let the loud-mouthed fellow keep his tongue, as well as his remaining eye, and not sent him blindly toward the Trolloc Fists searching ahead of them. Though the next day, the fool had managed to put his foot down on a rock-viper, and died in agony. Some men were just born unlucky, Ranim supposed.

For the time being, the _Tuatha'an_ assassin was not wearing the garish Tinker garb that so often made his victims underestimate him, but the same drab woollens and leathers as the others, countryman's clothing that better blended in with their surroundings. He still wore his knee boots, though he had deliberately not polished them for the last week, letting the sheen on the crimson leather fade. The thick linen veil about his face was less to do with camouflage, more the foul stench that rose from the signal fire. There was a shortage of wood hereabouts, and besides, the corpses of the Fist that had died here needed to be disposed of before the ravens gorged themselves to death. There was a shortage of ravens also, after all. For all that the accursed creatures had brought no word of their quarry – whoever they were, with the Aes Sedai, they were very good at hiding. And then, there was the other thing out there, whatever it was... there was a good reason why there were so few ravens; it had been nightly climbing into the trees where they roosted and snapping their necks... and that was the very least of what it had been doing.

Ranim watched as two mercenaries wearing thick scarves about their faces, dragged another Trolloc corpse over to the large bonfire, tipping the carcass into the flames. The pervasive stench worsened, slightly. More oily smoke arose. It should be visible for several leagues. Ranim turned and scanned the sky with expectation. The Dread Mistress should be here soon, he could feel a sense of proximity through the bond, and besides, a Draghkar scout had earlier reported her approach, though without speaking. Ranim was not even sure if they _could_ speak. Not that it had needed to talk, for while the Draghkar gesticulated at the sky with a clawed hand, the look of fear on its twisted face had already told him who was coming. The Draghkar feared the Mistress greatly, stood a little in awe of her, much more so than with any other Firewoman, who their hypnotic song had been bred into them to defeat. The Mistress had something of a Talent, that had saved her life on no few occasions, by all accounts. She stood immune to the Draghkar's song.

It was a rare Talent, but not unheard of, the Mistress had told him, the last case reported in an Aes Sedai who had fought in the Trolloc Wars. A demonstration had been arranged; the assembled Draghkar formed-up before the Waygate from which they had filed, a long line of pale, gaunt creatures, their wings folded about them like cloaks. There were nearly three score of them, Ranim had never seen so many in one place. Their large, dark eyes had stared, red lips spreading back from cruel teeth.

And the Mistress, voice croaking in the foul tongue of the Shadow, had commanded them all to sing. It was bad enough with _one_, but more than fifty would have been a dreadful sound… Ranim did not know, at the time he had his ears firmly packed with the plugs of wool the Mistress had provided, as he paced warily just behind her, a bared blade in each hand, whilst she wound her way through the ranks of crooning Draghkar. The Mistress had paused opposite each and stared into its eyes to make her point, before channelling a small flow of air and giving it two hard slaps across the face, turning its narrow head first one way, then the other. Every one of the Draghkar received the stare and the slap. The message was clear – 'your song does not dull my senses and leave me vulnerable to your kiss, Draghkar, and I can do much _worse_ to you with the Power than _this_.'

After which, the Dread Mistress had commanded the Draghkar to cease their song, a look of relief on her grandmotherly face when they did. She had then selected an unlucky example, one of the iron-collared Draghkar she used for her conveyance. They had set her down rather jarringly when she had arrived at the Waygate, angering her. She released the creature from its chain, commanded it to fly and, when high above, cast a ball of flame in its direction. The Draghkar had attempted to avoid the fiery missile, but Arachnae, squinting up at it, caused the fireball to veer after the creature and chase it. The other Draghkar had watched their shrieking fellow tumble to the ground and land hard in a shower of sparks. Again, they got the message.

The song of more than three score Draghkar, all at once - an unpleasant anthem, no doubt. Ranim had a fine voice, and though his sole source of pleasure now lay in killing, he would sing for the Mistress sometimes when she asked him to, not particularly minding since it was her asking and it seemed to please her. Ranim neither loved nor feared his Mistress (he was a little beyond, or perhaps beneath, such feelings now) but he _did_ respect her, when he respected little else, but for the power of the Great Lord. So, if she wished it, he would sing her a sweeter song than ever the Draghkar had. Though music reminded him of the wagons, and Ranim did not much care to recall the time he had still followed the Leaf Way, because he had been weak then, and pathetic.

The Mistress had a bad headache after the vile choir had sung to her, so Ranim had tossed some kindling onto the still-burning Draghkar, left the kettle on the blaze till it whistled, and made her a cup of the blueberry tea she favoured. The fire had stank (though not as bad as the bonfire behind him) but Ranim did not care, had simply put his dust veil over his face to mask the stench a little. The Mistress had smiled at him kindly when he brought her the tea, and ruffled his hair with what seemed like genuine affection. Ranim might have sworn his soul to the Shadow and devoted what remained of his life to the practice of murder, but even so, it was well to serve one who stood so high, who at least seemed to appreciate the little things as well as the big. There were much worse Dreadlords to serve than the Mistress...

Ah, here she was now... from behind the nearest peak emerged a dark speck that swiftly resolved into eight Draghkar flying close together, with something round suspended beneath them. A further dozen Draghkar flew above, a winged escort. As they descended toward the valley, the round object proved to be a large, wickerwork basket, eight long chains radiating out, attached to the iron collar each Draghkar had bolted about its neck. They gripped the chains with their clawed hands as they flew, whilst in the basket below, occupying a chair that had been lashed into place... Ranim raised a hand, waving it slowly back and forth at the old woman, a thick black shawl draped about the shoulders of her high-necked, grey silk gown, lace at the sleeves and collar. Arachnae Kirikil waved back.

* * *

><p>For all her great age, Arachnae's eyes were still keen, particularly when she held the Power. She could see Ranim down there, waiting with his men... there didn't seem to be as many of them as there had been. Well, that was the way of the Shadow... the weak did not always survive, whilst only the strong were considered fit to inherit the world.<p>

The eagle was back again, circling the basket slowly, eyes fixed on her. It had been following since noon, perhaps curious as to this strange contraption that had invaded its territory. Arachnae scowled at the creature and gestured with her hand. A flight of ravens rose from below, flocking around and mobbing the eagle until it dipped a wing and spiralled away to the east.

As they descended into the valley, Arachnae shook a small, gnarled fist at the Draghkar who bore her conveyance. "_See that you set me down _gently_ this time, vileness!_" she snapped, "_I am an old woman! Don't you dare tumble my bones about again!_" The Draghkar took great pains not to, their wings beating furiously as they slowly lowered the basket to a ribbon of flatness on the valley floor, suspiciously level, as though the vestiges of some ancient roadway. The creatures settled to the ground about her, crouching with wings folded. Arachnae scowled. Draghkar were useful tools, but that was all they were... tools. Her tools of choice, in this instance.

Ranim was there, to help her out of the basket.

"Hello, dear. How goes it?"

"Well-enough, Dread Mistress." Even with the dust veil tugged down to hang about his neck, Ranim's face conveyed as little expression as it had with his features hidden.

Arachnae eyed the assembled Darkfriends quizzically, her gaze moving to the others who were burning Trolloc corpses. They shifted nervously as her small, gimlet eyes passed over them. She wrinkled her nose, either at the stench, or at them. Perhaps both. "Were there not _more_ of them when you set out?"

"Yes, Mistress. A dangerous place, this World's End. Now I know why the wagons always avoided it. There are... _things_, from the Age of Legends, here... a big metal spike in a valley, that several of the men strayed too close to... they all-"

"Died. Yes, there is one like it in the Borderlands, though what their original purpose was, I can't imagine."

"A Trolloc killed a sentry, so I punished it. One of the men was bitten by a snake, another mauled by a mountain lion... oh, and two tried to desert, so I went after them and brought them back. I made an... example, out of them."

"Quite right, too. So how many are you up to now, dear?"

"Forty-nine, Dread Mistress."

"Goodness, is it that many? Why, you _are_ proficient at what you do!"

"I have always sought to apply myself."

"Good lad! Well, our agreement still stands, you just let me know, dear."

Arachnae knew that Ranim could have just told her that he had now killed fifty in her service and received his promised gift sooner... but the boy never lied to his Mistress (she had tested him carefully, on that score) for all that he could claim, on her behalf, to have lied to Ba'alzamon himself!

"The Warder lays beneath the cairn," Ranim added.

Arachnae scowled at the small pile of rocks, already beginning to weather, blending in with the surroundings. She had wanted the Warder's body left untouched, had given very specific orders to a barn full of scowling Myrddraal on this subject. Some of them had tried to disquiet her with their gaze, to challenge her regarding this and other orders she gave, but she had not permitted it, of course. Arachnae had simply stood there, her small, dark eyes unblinkingly returning that gaze until each Fade had grimaced and nodded in assent.

But Arachnae supposed that there was little point in disinterring the Warder, since she would not get to have her dinner party now. Her plan had been to return the captive Aes Sedai to the private-dining room of the Inn at Seleisin and enjoy a pleasant repast with her guest bound to a chair at the other end of the long table. The young Aes Sedai's dead Gaidin was to have been sitting next to her throughout and at the end of the meal, she would have been given to the Myrddraal. A fitting retribution for the Lady Ellythia, considering the trouble she had caused in the past! The Little Spider was well known in the higher circles of Friends of the Dark as a woman who took her revenge to almost theatrical proportions. Arachnae shook her head, turning away from the cairn. Well, there was no point now… best to just leave the Warder under there and be glad that he was dead.

"I found this amongst the rocks, Dread Mistress."

Arachnae examined the small chunk of obsidian; the marks that had been scratched upon it. "Well now, that _is_ interesting," she commented, softly.

A Fist of Trollocs waited nearby, hulking, bestial shapes squatting in disordered ranks. Their Myrddraal was otherwise engaged. Arachnae waited impatiently for it to finish communing with its vile bird. Though she could command them well enough, she wished she could see what the ravens saw, but just didn't have the knack for it. Finally, the raven cawed, left its temporary perch on the Myrddraal's shoulder, flapping off to join its brethren in eagerly snatching gobbets of flesh from the Trolloc corpses that were yet-unburned.

The Myrddraal turned its eyeless gaze upon her. She met that gaze calmly. It had been five hundred years since Arachnae Kirikil let a Fade outstare _her_. Through the bond that had led her to this place better than any signal-fire, she could sense Ranim standing close behind her, could feel his eagerness to kill. He was fingering the small throwing blade that he seemed to have acquired from somewhere... oddly, it had the Flame of Tar Valon enamelled on its flat, steel hilt.

"What news, Halfman?" Arachnae always called them that, it was well to remind the Myrddraal of their bestial origins, though she suspected that they found the term 'man' the more objectionable of the two...

"_Yes... I have seen her_."

"Then bring her to me. Unharmed." Arachnae smiled. "_If_ you can."

The Myrddraal stared at Arachnae for a long moment, then turned on its booted heel and strode away with serpentine grace. It swung into the saddle of its dark horse and lashed at the Trollocs with a whip, cursing at them in the Shadow tongue. They did not seem eager to rise – Arachnae knew them for lazy creatures, but there seemed to be something fearful about them also... a fear almost as great as that they held for their Myrddraal. Arachnae watched the long line of brutish warriors shamble reluctantly away into the twilit west, following the dark rider at the head of the Fist. She frowned. There were supposed to be _three_ Myrddraal, leading each Fist, were there not? That had been _her_ idea. What had happened to the other two?

Ranim shook his head. "They will not succeed. The few scouts who return say that the Aes Sedai may have Aielmen protecting her, as strange as that seems, as well as another Warder, perhaps... and then, there is the other thing..."

"What is that, my caution?"

So Ranim told his Mistress about the thing with the glowing eyes that came out at night, and what it had been doing. Arachnae's brow furrowed, slightly. Ranim blinked; clearly, he had never seen his Mistress looking worried before.

"Well, we shall have to _do_ something about that, most certainly. But for the nonce, let us take a look at this... black college." Ranim raised his eyebrows at the name. "That is what it was called in the Age of Legends. _Collam Doon_. Be a dear, and carry my bag for me."

Ranim tucked the dark knitting-bag beneath his arm and gestured gracefully at the ravine. "This way, Dread Mistress. Though there is little enough to see. Have a care, it is passing steep in places..."

The assembled Darkfriends were all hard men, who had done bad things, would not flinch from the necessity of doing worse. But when the slim, auburn-haired youth and the frail old lady who was leaning on his arm disappeared from sight down the ravine, they collectively heaved a sigh of relief.

* * *

><p>"Dereliction of duty," Ranim muttered, as he pulled the slim blade from between the ribs of the broken-nosed mercenary, who he had left down here to guard the entrance. Sleeping whilst on duty... well, it would be the last time he did so. Ranim wiped his dagger on the dead man's shirt, then rose, sheathing the weapon.<p>

The Mistress nodded her approval. "And how many is that now, my petal?" she enquired facetiously, for she knew the answer.

"Fifty, Dread Mistress."

The Mistress smiled pleasantly. "In which case, I have a present for you, that I think you will like. It is in the bag, underneath the leather folder." Ranim did not exactly dig through the knitting-bag eagerly, but even so, he could not help but wonder... was it a knife? The Mistress knew that he _liked_ knives, so perhaps...

Ranim pulled the dark blade from its sheath and spun the hilt in his fingers a few times. It was heavier than the ones he was accustomed to using, but the balance was perfect. It was made out of the same metal the Myrddraal used for their swords, by the looks of it. It felt ancient and evil, as though he held a splinter of the Shadow in his hand. Ranim did something which he did but very rarely. He smiled.

"_Thakan'dar_-forged," observed the Mistress. "These are very rare, my poppet. Only a few were made for the assassins of the Shadow, long ago, at the end of the Trolloc Wars. It took me considerable trouble to get my hands on one... so see that you put it to a good use."

"I will, Dread Mistress. That I will."

"Oh, and make sure you don't _cut_ yourself with it, boy!"

Unsurprisingly, Ranim had absolutely no sense of humour and forgot himself so much as to give the Mistress a slightly withering glance. She chuckled, softly.

There were glowing hemispheres of some sort of crystal set in the circular wall, but most were dim and appeared to be fading perceptibly. Ranim lit a torch and held it aloft as they made their way down a ramp into the gloom, having to step over the corpse of a Draghkar on the way.

Arachnae gave the dead creature only a cursory glance, nodding as though she had expected as much – indeed, she had given more time to examining the carven marble slab at the entrance, though something about it had seemed to confuse her. Down below, it was even darker. Ranim helpfully held the torch over the dead Myrddraal whilst the Mistress crouched just opposite, muttering about her knees. Her sudden cackle took him by surprise. The Mistress could be... disconcerting. She pointed a long-nailed, gnarled finger.

"See! It tore out the Fade's heart, left it in the creature's hand... why, it's giving us a message!"

Ranim frowned slightly. "_It_, Dread Mistress?"

"The Dragonspawn."

"What is that, Mistress? What message?"

The Mistress did not reply, rising and making her way over to the shattered archway. Ranim followed, torch raised, but she waved him away. "The smoke is bad for my lungs, dear..." The Mistress gestured with her hand – she often used such motions as an aid when she channelled, Ranim knew – and a sphere of pale light appeared over her head.

The large, _cuendillar_ box in the chamber beyond lay empty, though as of quite recently, by the looks of it – only the thinnest patina of dust had settled. The Mistress frowned down at the empty space.

"You are _sure_ there was not another of these boxes?" she enquired, repeating the emphatic question she had asked on their way down the ravine.

"I am certain, Dread Mistress. We have searched this place thoroughly, there are other rooms but all are empty – it is as though any other artefacts were removed long ago, leaving only this box-thing."

"Where did the Traitor put it, then...?" the Mistress mused to herself.

Ranim was preoccupied with something also. He was thinking about glowing, blue eyes in the dark and a harsh voice that spoke taunting words. "Dread Mistress?"

"Yes, my sweet?"

"I gave you the reports from the scouts but I repeat; there is something in the cliffs to the west that attacks the Fists at night, tears Trollocs to shreds...they are afeared of it and refuse to leave the safety of the fires... whatever it is, the Myrddraal have not been able to hunt it down. It has killed all that have been sent after it."

"Tsk. It leaves their hearts in their hands too, I would suppose?"

"It does _worse_ than that..." Ranim's gaze on her was patient.

"If you want to ask me a question then _ask_."

"What is a _Dragonspawn?_"

"What indeed? Be a precious and pass me that folder from my bag, would you?"

The folder proved to contain ancient yellow pages, one of which the Mistress held up to the pale light, squinting. The writing on it was angular, jagged in places. Her voice echoed softly from the low ceiling.

"Listen to this... a report from an agent of the Shadow, a young man whom I fancy had certain things in common with _you_, my dear. It is _very_ old, even as _I_ view these things… a translation of a translation, so bear with me."

The Mistress cleared her throat and read;

" '_The Dragonspawn goes to the Black College… the Traitor hides the Dragonspawn from the Shadow 'til the knell sounds for the Last Battle… when the Dragon, curse his name, is Reborn… the manner of finding, the key of waking, lies with the Traitor… all praise to Shai'tan, praise the Great Lord of the Dark…_' "

The Mistress lowered the page. "That last part is _less_ significant, but I trust you were attending to the rest, dear?"

Ranim nodded.

"Any thoughts, my sweet?" the Mistress enquired.

Ranim shrugged. "Only two. First – you do not employ me for my _thoughts_. You employ me because I kill anyone you tell me to, _when_ you tell me to."

"That is a fair point, dear. And what about second thoughts, now?"

"That I would like to meet this Dragonspawn, and kill it too."

"A chance would be a fine thing, my honey-bun. Easier said than done, I fear." The Mistress carefully replaced the page in the folder. Ranim was undeterred.

"Anything can be killed, howsoever difficult. How do I kill it?"

"With great difficulty, by all accounts… a _gholam_ tried once, and failed."

"A… what is that, Dread Mistress?"

"Something even more dangerous than _you_, my dove. Dread things, Shadow-wrought, made to kill Aes Sedai… all of them dead and dust long-since, I would hope." She glanced at the box again. "All but one." The Mistress shrugged her bony old shoulders. "In any case, I have my orders... we are _not_ to attempt to kill this Dragonspawn, I am relieved to say… it will make a useful tool for the Master. We are to turn it to the Shadow."

Complacently, Arachnae Kirikil patted her belt pouch. Something metallic clinked inside. "And I have the means to do so." She sighed. "The Dragonspawn… such as we are just _mice_ to it, I fear… so, the question is; _who shall collar the cat?_"

"Cat?"

"Just an expression, dear."

* * *

><p><strong>Part III: Falme<strong>

Shrinalla Tolamani of the Green Ajah was buying fish in the famous fish-buying market of Falme, where she had first bought fish as a girl. The Fish Hall was a rather dank, smelly arcade where the produce of the sea was sold, lined with numerous stalls where fish and crabs and lobsters of all kinds were laid out on trays full of crushed-ice, easily the oldest and most important part of Falme... why, upon this very spot, the venerable folk of ancient Miereallen might well have bought _their_ fish, also. Old, dirty tiles lay beneath Shrina's booted feet, and a barrel-vaulted roof curved above, from which her strident tones rebounded;

"I am _not_ paying that much for these skinny flounders, you thief! The Bluchas have always been thieves of the seas! Your mother is a _thief_, Tulith Blucha, and your brothers out on their boat are _also_ thieves... and so are _you!_ _Seven_ coppers for your pathetic, shrivelled fish, and that's my final offer!"

Tulith Blucha scowled angrily and shook her fist. She was dark of hair and eye, did not look much like her younger brother, Roth, took more after the father's side of the family, though she fortunately did not have his drinker's nose.

"_You_ are the thief, Shrinalla Tolamani (as are _all_ of the Watchers up there on their hill, your grandfather and cousins most especially) – a thief are _you!_ Seven measly coppers for the finest fruits of the bountiful Mother Ocean? You should be ashamed, and go ashamedly back to your White Tower, and hide your face in shame when you get there! I will take eight though."

Then, having shown that they respected each other by haggling properly and calling each other thieves and calling each other's family thieves also, Shrina gave Tulith Blucha the fishmonger's daughter eight coppers. She had demanded thirteen, though this was still much cheaper than an unFalman would have paid. Tulith then gave Shrina her fruits of the bountiful Mother Ocean, carefully wrapped in good brown paper, and not the cheap stuff that stuck to the fish that an unFalman would have got. Shrina tucked the neat package, heads and tails poking out, into her basket. And that was that, some fine fat flounders for her to fry-up for grandpa and the Twins and perhaps Thaeus, if he could be bothered to leave his Inn and come to dinner at the Towers of the Watchers... and all it had taken was several minute's worth of sustained insults and shouting!

Ellyth and Renn often thought their friend _rude_ – though they knew she had enough good points to more than make up for it – but Shrina had always been considered a polite girl by her neighbours! Her friends simply had _no idea_ how much Shrina had toned-down her Falme-ness before coming to Tar Valon!

"Oh, I saw your brother down in Illian, Tulith," Shrina mentioned, in far friendlier tones than those she had used for the honourable ceremony of the haggle.

"Really, Mistress Tolamani? That bloody wastrel! I hope he was alive when you saw him, though..."

"Oh yes... had a handsome woman on his arm, also, though not so handsome as I. I mean… um… beautiful. Yes, I am a beauty, she was merely handsome. And Ysmet told me she wished she had a scar on her face! Odd fish, those Ebou Dari..."

"Odd fish indeed!"

"He seemed to like her, though. _Noblewoman_, by the way." Shrina arched her eyebrows.

Tulith made a horse-like noise of disgust with her lips. "Roth! Swanning about Palaces pretending to be a blooming Bard! He was better-off with a nice well-born Watcher's daughter like you, Shrinalla, someone no stranger to our Falman ways… not like those..." and Tulith Blucha made a spitting sound, though she was too well brought-up to actually spit, especially here, in the hallowed Fish Hall "..._Seanchan_." Some of the other fishmongers heard this, frowned, and made spitting sounds also.

"I hope it was not too bad for you Bluchas, the occupation?" Shrina enquired.

"Oh, they were a stiff lot, those invaders... had to bow and scrape a fair bit... but everyone likes a nice piece of fish on their plate now and then, even them! We charged them double. But even so..." Tulith frowned "...they put one of those silver collars on cousin Zaira and marched her off to the big house, which annoyed us..."

Shrina scowled, annoyed also. She had heard things about these collars that she did not like, rumours that they had even been put around the necks of _Aes Sedai_... it was a shame the Seanchan had all been gone by the time she and the Twins got here, except for those captured by the Watchers... she would have liked to join the Heroes of the Horn on the field for _that_ battle! Her scowl intensified. The Horn of Valere. It had been near enough a month, but she was _still_ furious! It was an even bigger shame that a certain _Hornsneaker_ had also been long gone from Falme on her arrival... she had a score to settle with Master Cauthon! Tulith was rattling on;

"...but when the Dragon led the Heroes of the Horn against the Dark One and the Seanchan and perhaps the Whitecloaks also, we are not sure (_that_ was quite a day, I don't think our poor ma has got over it yet) I am glad to say that cousin Zaira managed to escape in all the confusion! She has gone back to selling her herbs and potions now... and it was those two strange, outland girls who helped her out of that collar, the ones who were renting the upstairs room! Ma always said there was something odd about them, but we never suspected they were..." Tulith glanced significantly at Shrina "...you know, a couple of _your_ lot, Mistress Tolamani."

Shrina raised her eyebrows. "Really? The whole town seems to have been crawling with Aes Sedai until I arrived, now I can't find a single one of them! I hope you didn't charge my Sisters too much rent?"

"We should have refunded it, considering! We were all very proud to hear you had won the shawl, by the way… well, those of us who _like_ you… others… certain girls you had disagreements with, for example… well, you know what some people are like… oh, and back when the news came, some Whitecloak-loving wagon-guard tried to scratch a dragon's fang on the Watcher's Gate!"

"Really? Grandpa wouldn't have cared for that, he always likes the paint on it to look nice and smooth. What did he do?"

"What do you _think_, Mistress Tolamani? He popped out of the postern with a gutting-knife, grabbed the Whitecloak-lover and scratched a dragon's fang on _him!_"

Shrina giggled. "He didn't tell me about that! Ah, grandpa and his sense of humour! I have missed this place and the ocean and all of you Bluchas and so forth, but I have certainly missed grampy the most!"

"Well, we have missed you too, Mistress Tolamani, it hasn't been the same since you went off to Tar Valon... it has certainly been _quieter! _Until those accursed Seanchan came, at least... and Roth too, we have missed him, I suppose, the old house was much duller after he ran away – well, was _chased_ away, ma still gives your grandfather free octopus for doing that, as she knows he likes them..."

"Octopus... yuck!" Shrina made a face. "So Mistress Blucha doesn't mind, that her youngest son got run out of town by my axe-brandishing grandpa?"

"Oh no, it was the best thing that could have happened for him – incentive! It was always obvious to the rest of us that Roth should go off and be a Gleeman!"

"Yes, sweet Roth always had a fine voice and a good memory and a witty way of telling stories – and was completely bloody useless at everything else! _Gleemen!_"

Shrina and Tulith then both laughed the loud, raucous, Falme laugh, throwing back their heads, the cackling echoing against the curved roof above. Some of the outlanders there to buy fish looked at them curiously, but the Falmen walked past without a glance. Shrina was just wondering if she could afford some of those oysters on the next stall, was beginning to anticipate the pleasure of further haggling, whilst preparing some choice insults for both the shellfish and their vendor, when-

"Shrina! _There_ you are!"

Shrina turned and was enormously surprised to see one of her dearest friends striding determinedly towards her through the throng of Falmen and Falwomen and Falchildren engaged in the important business of buying and selling fish. She was looking unusually determined. Recovering from the shock, Shrina was delighted;

"_Renn!_ I can't believe it's you! Unbelievable! This is _wonderful _– you're here in Falme and not in Tar Valon! You actually left the Tower for once! And came here – to _Falme!_ Where we both are right now! Listen, you won't believe what has happened to m-"

"Shut-up, Shrina! Stop blathering! You can tell me your silly stories about hunting for the Horn of Valere _later_ – right now we have _urgent business! _Where's that _other_ Horn I'm told you found? You had better not have lost it Shrina, or I shall dip you in the sea! And if you _have_ lost it, then you had definitely better not have lost it in a _wager_, or there shall be trouble, my girl!"

Shrina's mouth fell open, though no sounds emerged, which was unusual – she was not rendered speechless very often! Renn was miraculously and unexpectedly here in Falme, but _not_ greeting her with delight as she should, but being extremely brusque with her! Rude, even! That sort of thing was supposed to go the _other_ way, was it not?

"Stop gawping at me, you look like one of those fish in your basket! Honestly, Shrina, we don't have time for your nonsense! _Ellyth is in trouble!_"

* * *

><p>Lord Thaeus of House Desiama placed the last rock carefully, checked that the flagstaff was solidly affixed in place, and then tied the white pennant to it, so that it fluttered in the strong ocean breeze that swept above the town, the golden sunburst seeming to vanish and reappear as the long, thin flag whipped fitfully in the wind. He lowered his gaze to his booted feet, set in the freshly-turned soil of the mass grave dug by the local farmers, his lips moving in a silent blessing.<p>

Blaek Gaidin stood behind, dusting his gauntlets, as the rocks he had helped the young Amadici Nobleman place on the low cairn had been rather gritty. His own lips did not move, but he maintained a respectful silence even so. He had not minded helping, even if the memorial _was_ for dead Whitecloaks, since as a man dedicated to war and violence, he appreciated the necessity of honouring one's fallen comrades – for if you did not, who would? It was not about whether you had _liked_ the dead men who lay beneath the ground, but about duty; the duty of remembrance for those who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you, who had taken the same risks... and had fallen in your place. Blaek's gaze lingered on the rippling pennant for a moment, and he frowned before looking away, gazing out over the Aryth Ocean, which was not a patch on the Sea of Storms in his estimation... the sight of a Golden Sunburst raised his hackles a little, but it also reminded him uncomfortably of another banner, that he had seen on the way to Falme, and wished he had not. Again, Blaek heard the laughter, and sighed.

_The final brigand fell back, his gurgling howl cut-off by a severed windpipe, dropping his heavy sword and clutching briefly at his ruined throat, before lying still. Blaek was already carefully cleaning his sword on a scrap of cloth and checking the blade. How he longed for a Power-wrought sword, like Atual Gaidin's… though one with the Heron-mark on it would be nicer. There was a slight nick in the steel that would need to be ground-out at some point, hopefully there was a decent grinding-wheel left somewhere in Falme, even if nothing else was… some of these brigands had worn armour beneath their rags, and they had moved more like soldiers than he would have expected, from their appearance. Soldiers unused to facing opponents of the calibre of Aebel and Blaek Feruile, however! Which was why they were all dead._

_Blaek glanced at his brother. Aebel was cleaning his own blade and examining it with equal care. Dead brigands lay at his feet also. The brothers sheathed their blades at the same time, eyeing each other._

_"Four," declared Aebel._

_"Three," Blaek answered, grudgingly._

_Aebel smiled. Blaek frowned. Then, a low groan broke the silence in the clearing and one of the brigands at Blaek's feet moved slightly. _

_Aebel's smile widened. "Two," he corrected. _

_Blaek scowled. "Three soon-enough," he commented._

_The Twins looked down at the dying brigand without much curiosity. A deep wound in his side, he would not live much longer. He had been faster than the others, fought with his left hand, had a sparse yellow beard covering youthful features which had been set in an expression of hatred. They had all had that look to them, for that matter, had attacked as soon as they saw the fancloth cloaks the brothers were wearing. The brigand coughed some blood, then managed to raise his head slightly and snarl, "Warder curs! Lapdogs to… witches!" His head fell back, chest rising and falling raggedly. He had spoken with an unmistakeably Tairen accent. _

_Aebel smiled coldly. "Did you hear that, brother?" he remarked, "the Tairen calls us lapdogs!"_

_Blaek shrugged. "We are no dogs, and do not sit in our Aes Sedai's lap."_

_Aebel grinned. "Though often-times she has sat in ours!"_

_With the last vestiges of fading consciousness, the brigand from Tear registered their own accents. "Oilfishing… scum!" he rasped, and spoke no more. The Twins looked down at the brigand's staring blue eyes for a moment, then Aebel carelessly flipped a corner of cloak over his face with his boot. _

_Blaek smiled. "A Tairen, he was, though far from home."_

"_What of it?" Aebel muttered, sullenly._

"_Tairens count for _two!_" Blaek pointed-out, "so my score is four, same as yours!" Aebel scowled, and an argument might have ensued, but for a distant jingling of harness and flickering torchlight on the ridgeline above announcing the approach of riders… more brigands? Leaving the dead where they lay, Mosk and Merk standing patiently in the shadows, the Twins stole up to the trees, prepared for more killing if need be. _

_A line of torches, growing brighter... a column of riders, travelling east along the old wagon road, coming from Falme by the looks of it. Aebel and Blaek watched cautiously from the tree-line. Not brigands… they looked like Shienarans, of all things, though far from their Borderland garrisons. Riding behind a long, white banner… that depicted a sinuous, lion-maned creature, five golden claws to each foot. _

_The Twins stared. They had seen _that_ banner before, emblazoned against a wall of shimmering white fog! And this was not all they had seen before, for the Bannerman was not of Shienar, but the curly-haired youth with the wide shoulders, his eyes gleaming as gold as those of that turncloak, Machera, turning to say something to the girl riding beside him – why, it was the very same one who told their Mistress of the Horn! The _wrong_ Horn! They barely recognised her in a dress! What was she doing here? The pale girl's dark eyes held concern, she was staring at the young man riding at the fore of the odd, torch-lit procession. A tall, redheaded youth, with grey eyes. It was him, the subject of all the unusual rumours! There were pictures of the fellow everywhere! But an important question yet remained..._

"_Where is the Hornsneaker?" the brothers from Mayene whispered, in unison._

_They glanced at each other, thinking the same thought; if they did see the Andorman, perhaps it would be wiser not to tell of it? Not to tell Shrina, at least! But then, movement at the head of the column of riders caught their attention, for spurring her white mare forward from behind the big Ogier on the plough-horse... leaning up to speak insistently to the Dragon Reborn… there could be no mistaking the pale, slight, cool-eyed woman with the ageless face, the blue jewel hanging over her brow. _

_"Moiraine!" hissed Aebel._

_"Sedai!" appended Blaek, politely._

_"So where is..?" Aebel began – and then, a curved, Power-forged blade slipped between them, tapping each Warder smartly on the shoulder before withdrawing with equally alarming rapidity. The Twins whirled, hands on hilts. The tall man with the cold blue eyes staring from beneath the leather cord about his brow, draped in the same fancloth they wore, nodded to them. The Twins gaped._

_"Right here," said Lan Gaidin. "Where did you _think_ I was?"_

_"Lord Mandragoran!" the Twins uttered. At the same time. Lan's grimly set mouth quirked slightly, the hard planes of his features relaxing a little._

_"Twinfish!" acknowledged the senior Warder. The Twins blinked – it had been a while since one of their Swordbrothers called them _that_, but then, this particular Gaidin was in the Tower even less often than they – and besides, if al'Lan Mandragoran wanted to call them by a fish-name, he was more than welcome to! _

"_I've heard about you two, the Mayener brothers," Lan continued._

"_You've heard of us, Lord Mandragoran?" the Twins gasped, simultaneously._

"_I've heard that you're always saying things at the same bloody time, and it's clearly true! Why, it's more entertaining than a Gleeman!" Lan sheathed his sword with a deft movement and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "That carrion back there… your work?" _

_The Twins nodded mutely, not daring to speak – at least, not in unison! – and followed Lord Mandragoran back to where the dead brigands lay, their colour-shifting cloaks darkening to the hue of the shadows beneath the trees. Mosk and Merk were suspiciously eyeing the new warhorse that had joined them, standing stolidly, reins hanging. Mandarb! _

_Lan ran his cold gaze over the corpses. "You're travelling to Falme?"_

_Aebel nodded; "yes, Lord Mandra-" _

"_Stop calling me that!" Lan snapped. _

"_-goran..." Blaek fell silent. _

"_Sorry, Lan Gaidin!" they added. At the same time._

"_Cut that out, fish! And have a care in Falme, it was a very dangerous place when last I saw it... keep a close watch on your Aes Sedai..." Lan frowned at them "...where is she, anyway?"_

"_Back at the camp, Lan Gaidin."_

"_She sent us to watch the road, Lan Gaidin."_

"_She's alone?" Lord Mandragoran's voice was cold. The senior Warders took their duty very seriously. The Twins hastened to assure him that they did also._

"_There is a Blademaster to ward her in our absence-"_

"_-the brother of an Aes Sedai, and trustworthy."_

_Again, Lan's lips quirked slightly. "You had best swim back to her before your young Green decides a brace of fish isn't enough, and bonds the fellow!"_

_The Twins blinked, and would have swiftly protested Shrina's innocence, but Lan Gaidin raised a hand curtly, kicking back the threadbare cloak of one of the dead brigands. There was good plate armour beneath – finer than should have been worn by a deserter from the ragged remnants of one of the armies sent to Almoth Plain by Tarabon or Arad Doman. Lan crouched, going through the dead man's pockets._

"_But for the Tairen, from their cloaks-" _

"_-they look to be Taraboners." _

"_Taraboners?" Lan growled, "without veils?"_

_The Twins considered this, somewhat abashed._

_Lan Gaidin rose, holding something. A small, lacquered metal plaque, a red shepherd's crook emblazoned over a golden sunburst. He tossed it to Aebel._

_"Tai'shar Mayene, Twinfish," Lan observed dryly, "a good night's work. You younglings have managed to kill yourselves some Whitecloak Questioners… even if you did not know it at the time!" _

_Aebel passed the shepherd's crook badge to Blaek, who also made a show of examining it, avoiding Lord Mandragoran's stony gaze. _

_"We would have searched them but-"_

_"-we heard more riders approach."_

_Lord Mandragoran shrugged. "No matter. You did well enough." The Twins stood up a little straighter. Praise from Lord Mandragoran! "For a pair of oilfish." Their shoulders slumped, slightly. _

_Lan paced over to the dead Tairen, kicking the cloak aside and glancing at his face. "Wuan, this one was called... a nasty piece of work. I hope he enjoys the Pit!"_

_The Twins glanced at each other. Well, they could ask, at least._

_"Lan Gaidin… the men Moiraine Sedai rides with-"_

_"-we did not see him, but is there-" _

"_-a Matrim Cauthon amongst them?"_

_Lan eyed them for a moment, somewhat dangerously, then shook his head. "He is elsewhere. Why do you want to know about him?"_

_"Our Aes Sedai wishes to know, not us."_

_"She… would like to meet him, very much."_

_"Why?" Lan stared at them coldly. _

_The Twins exchanged another mute glance. They did not particularly wish to answer, as they thought that the whole Horn-Hunting episode might make them appear silly and superficial. But even though this was Lord Mandragoran asking them, well, demanding, and one could not readily lie to the Uncrowned King of Malkier... Shrina would _definitely_ not want them to tell about the Horn..._

_"Answer him." _

_A petite woman in a blue silken gown, walking her white mare out of the shadows. She lowered the cowl of her pale cloak and a glittering blue jewel caught the light. Moiraine Sedai! "Tell me, what business does your Aes Sedai believe that she has with Mat Cauthon?" Her dark eyes drilled into theirs whilst Lord Mandragoran scowled and fingered his sword-hilt. It proved to be quite a powerful combination for eliciting information! So, much as they did not wish to, the Twins grudgingly told Moiraine Sedai and Lan Gaidin about the Hornsneaker, and what their Aes Sedai intended to do to him when she had successfully hunted him down..._

_As they rode back to Shrina, the Twins looked at each other in chagrin, their olive-skinned cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The reaction of the Blue Sister and her Warder to the truth had not been what they expected... not at all… that stern, ageless face breaking into an amused smile on the one hand, those stony features twitching with unaccustomed mirth on the other... A combination of oddly girlish giggles and harsh, gravelly laughter seemed to chase them as they rode away! What was so funny about this accursed Cauthon fellow being forced to eat the Horn of Valere by their Aes Sedai? They didn't know Shrina, she wasn't joking – she _meant it!_ So, the Twins had finally got to meet their hero, Lord Mandragoran – as well as Moiraine Sedai, no less – and... and they had _laughed_ at them! They were Warders, not Court-fools – it was humiliating! _

His duty done, Thaeus turned, stepping away from the cairn beneath which Lord Bornhald and a thousand men of his dead Legion lay. Geofram Bornhald had been a friend of his father's, at least in as much as either of them _had_ friends, their Houses linked by blood for several generations, though not in recent times... had she not begun to Channel – though Thaeus did not wish to dwell upon _that_ – then Ellyth might have found herself married to young Dain Bornhald, so perhaps it was just as well that she had gone to the White Tower instead...

Thaeus would not have liked to have to call _that_ fool his brother, especially since his own brothers were dead. The son certainly did not take after the father in that House... Lord Bornhald had been a man of honour, Thaeus considered, if ruthless with it – he had not ignored his obligations and had given the son of his old comrade a place in his Legion when there were few others amongst the Lord-Captains prepared to offer a company command to a young officer whose sister was a Tar Valon witch.

Thaeus nodded to the Warder. "Thank-you for your help, Aebel Gaidin."

"I am Blaek, Aebel remained in town with Shrina Sedai."

"Forgive me, Blaek Gaidin, it is just that..."

"No matter, it happens all the time."

"I suppose that it must, yes? But I appreciate the aid, even so... considering..."

Thaeus was too mannerly to ask the obvious question, though his raised eyebrow was certainly enquiring.

Blaek shrugged. "They may have been Whitecloaks, who would have made themselves my enemy by trying to kill my Aes Sedai, but they were still brave men."

The local farmers had simply interred the broken remains of the Legion into a hastily-dug pit and filled it in, though Thaeus was glad they had at least done that much – they had left the corpses of the Seanchan invaders to the crows and seagulls.

Thaeus examined the fluttering pennant critically – the seamstress in the shop next to his Inn had raised her eyebrows when he asked her to make _that_ for him, but she had done a good enough job. A better job on the dark coat he now wore, as well as his new cloak, not white, but red. "I did not care for them overmuch," he muttered, "but they were still my comrades – I owe them this." Blaek nodded. "And I can assure you that since we rode into _battle_ against soldiers, rather than into a village full of unarmed farmers, that there are no _Questioners_ buried here." Thaeus had made his feelings about the Hand of Light quite clear – with deeds as well as words.

_The bronzen note resounded through the small clearing, yellow-orange light from the campfire flickering against surrounding foliage and ancient ter'angreal both. Lord Thaeus lowered the curling huntsman's instrument and glanced around himself. After a while, when no trace of pale fog appeared, he nodded, a suggestion of disappointment vying with relief on his features, and rose to return the Horn of T'oph to its saddlebag._

_"I suppose that answers _that_ question," observed his sister's friend, the rather brash young Aes Sedai who had Healed him._

_"I am afraid that it does, Shrinalla Sedai," Thaeus agreed. "It would seem that _you_ are the Hornsounder, and no other!"_

_The willowy Aes Sedai frowned slightly. "An honour I could happily have avoided," she muttered, before returning her attention to the smudged chalks on the parchment she held, shaking her head slowly. The fire-light picked out the details; the two combatants, duelling in the sky above Falme. The Dark One, flames dancing in his mouth and eyes… and the tall, red-haired youth who confronted him. The Dragon Banner rippled in the sky behind them. She glanced at Thaeus, who had returned to sit on the other side of the fire. She held up the picture. "You are sure this is what you saw?" she asked him, not for the first time._

_"It is, Shrinalla Sedai," Thaeus affirmed. "Quite a good likeness, too."_

_"Call me 'Shrina,' you might as well," the young Aes Sedai muttered, absently, folding up the parchment and putting it away. She sighed. "So, the Dragon is reborn, and the Last Battle is coming." She shook her head, adding bitterly, "I was right about _that_, at least!"_

_Thaeus attempted to commiserate. "I am sorry that it was not you who found the Horn of Valere, Shrinalla... Shrina Sedai, I mean, but-"_

_"Oh, just Shrina, I hate 'Sedai' it always makes me feel like an old woman!"_

_Thaeus grinned. "Then you must call me Thaeus, or 'Lord Whitecloak...' though I am no longer a Whitecloak and when father hears that I have decided to follow the Dragon, I shall no longer be a Lord either... he will make one of my cousins his heir, yes? But I sympathise... Shrina... life is often unfair, we do not always receive our just desserts…"_

_Shrina shook her head. "No, I see now, I thought too much of glory, of the Heroes answering my call… perhaps the Hornsneaker thought only of salvation... even if it was just his own!" She laughed, and after a moment, Thaeus joined-in. "I promise you – no more lightning!" She had a pleasant laugh, this Shrina._

_Thaeus retrieved his dirty tabard from where it lay. He was no longer wearing that particular garment, but a rough, homespun shirt and a brown, patched cloak that he had acquired in the same village as Shrina had found her chalk sketch. He looked at it for a long moment, staring at the golden sunburst symbol on the breast, then bundled it up and consigned the tabard to the flames. Immediately wishing he had not, he rose, coughing and fanning the air. Shrina narrowed her eyes and for a moment, the camp-fire flared brighter, the garment reduced to ashes whilst a sudden upwards breeze whisked away the offending smoke._

_Thaeus blinked. No matter how many times he saw it, he was still unused to the sight of a woman channelling. For all that his sister reportedly did it... that he had done it himself, he supposed... whatever it was he had done. The Family Curse. He had channelled the One Power... well, he would not do so again... unless he had to. Unless he had no choice. But he could feel it there, on the fringes of his awareness, the Power or whatever it was... calling to him. A call that, soon or late, he might be compelled to answer._

"_So you mean it – you're really not a Whitecloak anymore?" Shrina enquired._

"_Naturally, __I mean it – I renounced my Oaths when I burnt my cloak!"_

"_It is just that you have that same annoying sense of humour as your sister... where one is never sure if what you say is serious or not!"_

"_An unfortunate trait that we inherited from our father. After he was taken prisoner at Soremaine, father lay in a tent full of scowling Companions of Illian with a crossbow-bolt sticking out of his hip... and told an Aes Sedai that he did not require Healing, but would she please be so good as to bring him a cup of soothing herb-tea instead?"_

_Shrina chuckled. "I bet she wasn't happy!" She frowned. "But can you do that? Just burn your cloak and say you're not a Child of the Light anymore?"_

_Thaeus shrugged. "The Dragon has been reborn," he said, simply, "all bonds are broken, all ties unbound."_

_"I thought Whitecloaks… Children, that is..." Shrina qualified, "I thought they considered their oath to hold them above all else?"_

_"Nearly all else..."_

"_You're not planning to go running off to join those Dragonsworn we've been hearing about, are you?"_

_Thaeus laughed. "Not likely! A rabble, doubtless much given to looting and burning, I expect that half of them will be dead before the end of winter. No, once I have escorted you safely to Falme, I mean to find the Dragon Reborn, and swear my allegiance to him personally, yes? And I shall not regret breaking the Oaths I swore as a foolish boy, beneath the Dome of Truth... apart from anything else, I am sick of the fear."_

_"Fear?" Shrina eyed him with a touch of confusion. "You do not seem to be the fearful type, any more than your sister…"_

_"Not my own fear, Shrina Sedai… the fear of others, who are frightened of _me_, yes?" Thaeus shrugged, a hint of self-disgust in his wry smile. "Wherever I have ridden, at the head of my men, I have always seen it in their eyes… fear. Fear of doors marked with Dragon's Fangs, accusations levelled at suspected Darkfriends… fear of what we Children might do to them, in the name of the Light…" He sighed. "If we were truly pure and good… then we would see _love_ in the eyes of those we claim to protect. Not fear. Of course, there are always the usual ingratiating types who greet our arrival in some village or town with enthusiasm… but they are never the sort I would wish to associate myself with... anymore than I would choose to ride with Questioners..."_

_Riders, approaching. Too many to be the Twins and too loud, for that matter… and too late to kick dirt over the fire. Thaeus stood, shrugged off his cloak and retrieved his sheathed sword from where it leaned against the log he had been sitting on. He held its long curve loosely in his hands, ready to draw. A Heron stood out on the hilt, there was another etched into the blade. _

_The family sword of his House, that had once hung at the hip of General Luco Desiama himself. On the day Lord Guye had presented it to him, finally allowing that he was worthy to carry it, his father had, in his usual wry manner, pointed out to his son that though generations of Aes Sedai-hating Desiamas had proudly carried the weapon into battle, it had been wrought, long-ago, with the One Power! Presumably, by an Aes Sedai. Thaeus had always pretended to sharpen the blade, when amongst the Legions… but had known it did not need it. Life for him, it seemed, was to be full of paradoxes and inconsistencies, the family sword the very least of them! _

_The half-dozen men who walked their horses into the clearing wore blue Domani cloaks over their armour, but there was not an ear-stud or beauty-patch amongst them. Thaeus recognised their leader, and scowled. Naming Questioners was clearly as unlucky as naming Shai'tan..._

_"Child-Questioner Earwin," Thaeus acknowledged, levelly._

_The big man with the long moustaches narrowed his grey eyes. He raised a fist and the riders halted, dismounting. Hands on hilts, staring suspiciously. Shrina remained seated by the fire, hands folded in her lap._

_"Why are you not with the Legion, Desiama?" Earwin growled. _

_"My title is 'Lord-Lieutenant Desiama' and I strongly suggest that you use it, Questioner," Thaeus responded. "As for the Legion – or the half-Legion that was all that was left to my Lord Bornhald when your master Carridin took the rest from his command… well, they are all dead. As is the Lord-Captain. Fallen to the invaders… or had you not heard?"_

"_Oh, I certainly heard... betrayed to their deaths by yellow-eyed Darkfriends and Tar Valon witches..." Earwin's cold, grey eyes moved to Shrina. "Who is she?"_

"_A lady under my protection, Questioner. That is all you need to know."_

_Shrina smiled brightly at Earwin. "You may know me as Mistress Amaranthia," she declared, "you might say that I am a merchant, dealing in rare musical instruments."_

_Child-Questioner Earwin blinked. "Walk in the Light," he told Shrina, curtly._

"_Oh, I always do!"_

_Earwin smiled coldly. "If that is the case, Mistress... Amaranthia... why are you concealing your right hand beneath your left?"_

"_Um... to try and hide the fact that I'm wearing a serpent-ring on it..?" _

"_Darkfriends! Arrest them both!"_

_Thaeus' sword left its sheath and he advanced his right foot, hands shifting on the hilt. The Questioners drew their blades also. Thaeus smiled at Earwin. "Where is Child Wuan? You usually avoid danger in each other's company, do you not?"_

"_He is nearby. You are planning to duel with him again?" demanded Earwin, scornfully, "after defeating us, perhaps? You did not triumph the last time, I recall."_

"_You recall poorly. I wounded him badly enough that he did not speak disparagingly of my sister again, I seem to recollect. And I did not use my right hand uppermost either, on that occasion, a handicap I shall avoid on this..."_

"_One against six?" Earwin sneered, though continued to keep his distance._

"_Whitecloaks clearly cannot count," observed Shrina, rising from her log. Her cavalry-blade lay sheathed against her saddle, by a tree on the other side of the clearing. Shrina reached out languidly and the sword left the scabbard and shot towards her, spinning once on its way, before the hilt slapped into her hand. A wide, forward-curved blade, it appeared to have writing engraved on it. _

"_Aes Sedai!" shouted Earwin, "do not attack her, take the traitorous Darkfriend instead – she cannot intervene if we do not threaten her person!"_

_Everything happened very fast, from this point. _

_Thaeus slipped into the void on the instant violence erupted, the place his father had taught him to go when there was killing to be done. He resisted the urge to reach out and grasp... something. The call of the Power seemed to come upon him more strongly in this place. Instead, emptied of all emotion, he glided from form to form, using his enemy's numbers against them, his blade sweeping and dipping in deadly arcs... Cataract in the Valley... The Smoke Ascends... Milling the Corn... only him and the blade, perfectly still, whilst the world moved around them. _

_The Serpent's Strike, and a fourth Questioner fell, clutching his throat, even as Thaeus was completing Whirlwind over the Dunes, almost decapitating the fifth... a deep cut in his shoulder, left by one of them, which he ignored... sensing movement to his left, turning too late… Thaeus began to shift the blade up into Boxing Hare, seeming to move too slowly, a fly caught in amber, his wounded shoulder protesting, Child-Questioner Earwin's sword darting for his face as the void shattered – and another blade intervening, parrying the vicious thrust away, fast as lightning. A wide, forward-curved blade, engraved with verse. Earwin took a few quick steps back, raising his sword above his head in a two-handed grip, as Shrina slipped between the combatants, the cavalry blade held loosely in one hand. _

"_An Aes Sedai with a sword!" Earwin laughed. Shrina scowled. _

_Thaeus clutched a hand to his shoulder to stem the steady flow of blood. "Shrina, please stand aside... this is my duel, yes?"_

"_No!" Shrina muttered, her eyes fixed on Earwin. The fellow did not seem to care, that his fellow Questioners lay dead about him, his eyes were on them, held a fanatical hatred. And he was still laughing. Shrina's scowl darkened and she slipped a foot forward, unhampered by her divided skirts and took up a firm, two-handed grip on the hilt, the tip of the blade pointed at Earwin's throat._

"_Shall we dance, Whitecloak?" Shrina suggested._

_Child Questioner Earwin was fast for a man of his size and seemed to find the prospect of duelling a woman amusing. The harsh laughter was cut off rather abruptly – along with Earwin's hands – as Shrina side-stepped his powerful downwards stroke with swift grace, performed a neat amputation at the wrists, then spun, as though she was indeed dancing, and carried-out a similar operation at his neck, opening his throat with equal neatness. The Questioner dropped to his knees, then his face, and lay still amongst the dead leaves. Shrina frowned down at the man she had killed._

_"Eurgh! I hate doing that... lightning is so much cleaner than all of this blood and guts... still, he didn't seem to be a very nice fellow, even for a Whitecloak Questioner, and he did call us Darkfriends, so I can't say that I regret the necessity."_

_Thaeus was eyeing Shrina with respect and gratitude, but confusion also._

_Shrina proceeded to wipe her sword clean with her handkerchief, taking care that no blood remained in the shallow wells of engraved writing. She noticed Thaeus' regard, and sniffed. "You shall require Healing again, pretty fellow," she observed, "so lose the shirt!" Shrina's teeth flashed in a slightly savage smile, "I shall have to bond you too if you are going to force me to make a habit of saving your life! That is all we Greens ever do, you know, save the skins of our intemperate Warders."_

_"Well, exactly!" Thaeus responded, as he struggled with his shirt, blood soaking most of one sleeve. Shrina raised her eyebrows, clearly confused. Thaeus qualified; "those three oaths of yours... I thought that you were only permitted to do violence in protection of your Gaidin..?"_

_Shrina shrugged, dismissively. "Oh, that is just with the One Power…" she grinned, wolfishly "...the Third Oath doesn't say anything about swords!"_

_When the Twins returned, the somewhat scornful laughter still ringing in their ears, they scowled to see more dead Questioners – the night was full of them, it seemed! – and scowled further at the sight of the young Lord Whitecloak seated on a log with his shirt off, their Aes Sedai seemingly running admiring fingers over his bare shoulders..._

_"I'm Healing him!" Shrina snapped, in response to their accusing glares._

When he felt that he had communed with his dead comrades long enough, Thaeus returned to the horses, Blaek walking at his side. The young Warder glanced curiously at the Heron-mark blade bouncing on the Amadici Lord's hip.

"Did you kill a Blademaster for that?"

"The Blademaster who presented me with the sword was Lord Guye Desiama, High-Seat of my House and my own father, so patricide should scarcely have been appropriate in light of so fine a gift, yes?" Blaek nodded, solemnly. Thaeus grinned. "Father flaming-well made me _earn_ it, though!"

Blaek went to his saddle, from which hung two practice-swords, bundles of slim wooden lathes. Thaeus had wondered why the Warder had brought them with him when they rode up out of town to build the cairn. Now he found out. There was something challenging in Blaek's eyes when he turned, holding out a pair of wooden hilts, giving Thaeus his choice of weapon.

"Shall we see if you earned it or not, Lord Whitecloak?"

* * *

><p>"Come with me, <em>Rennetta<em>," Shrina snapped, grabbing Renn's hand and dragging her friend from out of the dank depths of the Fish Hall, away from the curious gazes of the fisher-folk.

Renn reddened. Shrina only ever called her by her _full_ name when she was extremely annoyed with her! Its use reminded her nervously of her mother, to whom she was _always_ 'Rennetta.' How she loathed the name! She was not even sure how Shrina had found out her full nomenclature – she had certainly not written anything other than 'Renn' in the novice book... but Shrina noticed all sorts of things that others might not, a necessary skill required by a Hunter for the Horn, she had told her once. Not that she would be doing much of _that_ anymore... poor girl! She must be upset, to have not got here in time – the locals were all speaking of the handsome young Hero who had sounded the Horn of Valere with awe. If noticeably not mentioning the _other_ one, he who had appeared in the sky over Falme, who there seemed to be a great deal of colourful chalk sketches available of... in her brief time on Toman Head, Renn had so far bought three! Though in her haste to share the news about Ellyth, she had been a little hard on Shrina perhaps, she must be feeling the disappointment keenly... but even so, it was no excuse for calling her _Rennetta!_

One of Shrina's Warders loitered further along the arcade, attracting admiring glances from various fishwives. He bowed gracefully at their approach, falling-in behind them.

"Hello, Blaek," said Renn, absently.

"I am Aebel, Renn Sedai," the Twin corrected her.

"Oh, sorry..." Renn glanced at Shrina. "Where are we going to, anyway?"

Shrina ceased her angry stalk and released Renn's hand, smoothing her skirts a little. "I believe you mentioned a certain _Horn?_ _That_ is where we are going!" Shrina sniffed, thrust the basket of fish into Aebel's hands and went outside, her Warder pacing her. Renn took a grateful breath of healthy sea air as she followed, for the atmosphere in the arcade was more than a little fishy...

Jabal was standing by the horses where she had left him, speaking quietly with Aebel – no, Blaek – whilst the young fellow who had turned out to be Ellyth's brother was staring into space. This 'Thaeus' appeared to be muttering to himself. Odd!

Though even odder had been what the two young men were doing when she and Jabal came riding out of the trees – trying to bash each other with bits of wood! As if they did not have more important things they could be getting on with... _and_ Jabal had wanted to fight the winner! _Warders! _Not that young Thaeus was Gaidin, for all that he had seemed to be winning the sparring match...

Shrina glanced at the tall, graceful mare on the lead-rein – "yes, that is _definitely_ Eradore," – then noted that her other Gaidin was looking somewhat bruised.

"What in the Waves happened to you?"

"I was sparring with Lord Whitecloak..." Blaek muttered.

"You lost, by the looks of it! And stop calling him that, he isn't a Whitecloak anymore, I think he wants to go off and be a Dragonsworn instead, now..." Shrina eyed Thaeus, who blinked, and entered the conversation, if such it could be termed.

"Mmm? Oh, it is perfectly alright, I told them to call me that, I quite like it... and I do not wish to be Dragonsworn anymore, Shrina, I now intend to assist Renn Sedai in rescuing my sister from peril, yes? Perhaps I shall go and pledge my service to the Dragon Reborn after that task is accomplished, but for the time being... well, the motto of my House is _Family First_. You understand?"

Thaeus returned to staring into space, a concerned cast to his light-blue eyes. Renn blinked. He _was_ an odd young fellow, not much like his sister, for all that he sounded like her... he even made that '_mmm?_' noise!

Aebel glanced at the large bruise on the side of his brother's head, and raised his eyebrows. Blaek frowned. "He's good." Aebel smirked. Blaek scowled. "_You_ try him!"

The Towers of the Watchers lay on high cliffs to the southern edge of Falme, around the curve of the broad bay, the shattered hulks of strange, bluff-bowed ships interspersed with the occasional fishing boat providing the only relief to the endless rolling expanse of the Aryth Ocean. Though clearly it _did_ have an end, and those who lived on the other side of it had recently managed to make themselves extremely unwelcome in these parts, by all accounts! The six of them had ridden past the docks and into the warehouse district – Shrina angrily pointing out the mess the Seanchan had made of the cobbles – before Renn realised that they were not going to an Inn.

"I can't afford one!" Shrina groaned, on being questioned about this, "so the boys and I have to stay with grandpa up at the miserable old Towers – and he _definitely_ doesn't approve of the three of us! Separate bedrooms!"

It was some distance to the miserable old Towers, so on the way, Renn began to tell Shrina what she had been doing since last they were together, though not in anything resembling the order in which events had actually happened!

"You came here, to Falme, through _the Ways?_" Shrina gasped, interrupting the collage of information.

"Well, not exactly... we wanted to, but... oh, never mind all that, it's not important... but listen to this, you won't believe what I saw a couple of days ago!"

Renn, having got the urgent news about Ellyth out of the way, moved to what she considered the second most important detail. Shrina scowled. "_S'redit?_ What sort of a stupid name is that?"

Renn chuckled. "Master Luca didn't like it either... silly man!"

_Renn gazed upon the great beast with fascination. It was testing its leg gingerly, touching where the wound had been. It was grey, with huge flapping ears and tusks in addition to the odd nose, and it was enormous. The size of a barn! It was the most amazing creature Renn had ever seen! _

"_Thank-you for healing Mer, honoured marath'damane," repeated the woman with the pale yellow hair, her voice somewhat muffled since she was crouching down on the ground again, addressing the soil._

"_I love animals and always Heal wounded beasts," protested Renn, "do stop going on about it... and please stand up, I can barely hear you from down there!"_

"_Forgive me, honoured marath'damane," the woman muttered in her odd, slurred accent, standing, her eyes still lowered however. Renn's brow furrowed. Why did she keep calling her that? _

"_Honoured or otherwise, __I've never much desired to wear a leash," Renn muttered absently, eyes still fixed on the grey beasts as they touched each other reassuringly with their long noses. The big one had been injured by a Whitecloak arrow and the wound had festered, it had taken a deal of the Power to Heal him... _

_Valan Luca was still speculating, his eyes greedily lingering on the three strange animals. "Giant pig-goats..?" he wondered, "no... Giant deer-pigs..?"_

_"Why not 'giant boar-horses' Master Luca?" Renn suggested. "They're not very horse-like, but they do have tusks like a boar, well, except for the little one."_

_Valan Luca considered a moment, lips pursed, then grinned._

_"No, Renn Sedai, I will go you one better! _Sharan_ giant boar-horses!" he turned to the pale haired woman, "you _are_ from Shara are you not, my dear?"_

_The woman looked about herself nervously, then nodded, eyes back on the ground. "Yes... Shara," she muttered._

_Renn wondered where this Cerandin and her odd creatures had really come from... could she be one of these invaders who had crossed the ocean, that they had been hearing about? But that seemed unlikely – how could you fit one of those enormous creatures into a ship? Perhaps she really was from Shara... but that was all beside the point, for there had been Healing to do... the large beast reached out its long nose and touched her face surprisingly gently with the whiffling end of it._

_"You're welcome," Renn told it. "I still don't see why they can't just be 's'redits,' Master Luca," she added, "it seems like a perfectly acceptable name..."_

_"But what does it _mean_, Renn Sedai?" Valan Luca's voice became declamatory, and he fluttered his satin cloak as though he had an audience. "It will not draw the crowds near so well as 'the Mysterious Giant Boar-Horses of Fabled Shara!' " Valan Luca chortled and rubbed his hands together, as though he could already see himself counting the coin, as well as basking in the reflected glory of the s'redits! Renn shrugged. At least she had got to see them for free..._

_Renn gave the magnificent creatures a last fond glance, before going over to where Jabal impatiently held the horses. Well, it seemed that the show had found itself a new attraction – which was just as well, for the Atha'an Miere sword-thrower and his reluctant assistant were about to leave the bill! _

Shrina snorted, rolling her eyes with exasperation. "_Honestly_, Renn! So you have journeyed awhile with a travelling menagerie and then encountered some strange beasts, one of which you Healed of an arrow-wound... (I myself Healed a poor wolf who had hurt his paw, by the way, and he said he was very grateful, so you are not the only one around here who is kind to animals.) Giant boar-horses from Shara? Pah! But that does not tell me what you are _doing here!_ Watcher's Oath! Start from the bloody beginning!"

"There is no need to shout, Shrina! Oh, by the way, we met Lord Wakime..."

Shrina forgot about the beginning. "Alven! Dear little man! Stop glaring at me like that, you two... how was he?"

"Very angry, I am afraid... after he has killed all of the Shadowspawn, he wants go to Illian and kill that Gleeman friend of yours into the bargain!"

"Sweet Roth? No! Surely not? I thought they were friends? Why would dear Wakime wish to harm a hair on Roth's handsome head- I _said_, stop glaring at me!"

The Twins lowered their eyes and made grumbling sounds under their breath.

Renn shrugged. "Oh, it was to do with a rude song or some such foolishness... _men!_ Then, after Seleisin we came here, to find the girls and a ship... I might have known you'd be here too – oh Shrina, it is so good to see you!"

Shrina's voice sounded somewhat muffled through the enthusiastic hugging which, though Renn rode close alongside, threatened to drag her from the saddle. "Yes, well, it is good to see you also Renn, for all that you did not seem so pleased to encounter me back at the Fish Hall!" Shrina blinked. "Hold a moment... you said you arrived in Saldaea on the fifth of Tammaz... so how did you get down here so fast? You didn't use those horrid Ways again?"

"Not on your life! I am still having nightmares about that place – most unpleasant, especially at the end with that windy thing and all of the screaming and the howling..."

"Start from the _beginning_, Renn."

So, in more consecutive fashion, Renn told Shrina what she had been up to since she left Tar Valon.

Shrina frowned after a while, holding up her hand. "Wait... you came through the Ways looking for the missing novices in order to foil whatever it is slimy Liandrin is up to... but got lost and ended up in Saldaea and managed to find Ellyth's mare instead... oh, and Trollop has gone completely mad, as mad as one of those male-channellers she is always chasing after, and has bonded herself a tall, handsome Warder (except for the unsightly moustache) – _that much_ _I understand!_ But it _still_ does not adequately explain why dear Wakime wishes to kill sweet Roth? I _have_ to know!"

So, Renn told Shrina what she had been up to after _that_.

* * *

><p>Jabal made a soft, groaning sound. Renn did not hear… she was examining the odd woollen article she had found downstairs in the private dining-room that morning… why would someone go to the trouble of knitting a <em>spider's web?<em> It was beautiful work, though – she wished _she_ could knit half so well as that! Left behind by whichever guest had stayed here prior to their arrival, she supposed, draped on that old rocking chair in the corner of the room. It was odd, staying in an Inn where the staff were all occupying a gibbet in the courtyard! Rather a solitary experience... not to mention gruesome. She had asked the soldiers to cut the Darkfriends down but they had apologised and muttered about 'His Lordship' in a nervous manner. They certainly seemed to be cautious of upsetting the fellow, Renn imagined that he must be some hulking, extravagantly-bearded Border-Lord who carried a large axe and had bells in his hair and Trolloc-skulls hung about his neck... though her knowledge of the Borderlands was somewhat limited, to be honest...

Jabal groaned again, a little louder. Renn heard this time. She sighed, checking. Saddle-sores! Aching feet too... Renn masked the bond again. _Foolish man!_ If he wanted Healing, he should just ask for it! Or order her to Heal him, since they were in private. Theirs _had_ been a traditional Sea Folk wedding, after all... Renn still blushed to recall it, not so much at having been naked or at her soon-to-be husband being naked either, but rather at the scarred old _Atha'an Miere_ Blademaster who performed the ceremony being naked also! _And_ this Caroc fellow kept _leering_ at her whilst he spoke the words of blessing! _Men!_

Fortunately, the Master-of-Blades and Jabal had been the only Sea Folk present for the Sea Folk wedding (no further guests would have fit in the cramped cabin of the _Riverpike_ anyway) as the thought of a nude Nyein Sedai being there also filled Renn with horror! Old Caroc had come up from Tear to perform the secret ceremony as a favour to his former apprentice, and when he had put his britches back on, and – with a final, appreciative leer for the blushing bride and a "congratulations, lad, she's a _peach!_" for Jabal – _left them alone_ _together_, well... that had been quite a wedding night! It had _more_ than made up for the sheer embarrassment of the wedding itself! For all that the bed in the cabin was rather narrow and hard... perhaps a new mattress..?

But Renn was getting side-tracked – she often got side-tracked.

As a consequence of the nudity and the boat, if not the leering and the inappropriate comments, theirs _was_ a traditional _Atha'an Miere_ marriage, however. Which meant that whilst Renn gave the orders in public, in private...

"Wife! I have a command for you!" Jabal gave his commands but rarely, and succeeded in getting his own way even less rarely than that... "Since we are alone, I outrank you... I now command you to take my sword and put me out of my misery!"

Renn had been expecting to be commanded to give her husband Healing for his saddle-sores or at least a foot-massage, and was halfway through obediently-yet-ironically putting her hand over her heart as she customarily did upon receiving these rare orders... but at this, she frowned and raised her eyes to the oak-boarded ceiling. "Honestly, it's only a few saddle-sores, if you want Healing then just _ask_ for it!"

"It is my feet also," Jabal complained. He sat up on the bed, eased off the remaining boot, then the stocking, and regarded his rather red feet glumly. He lay back down.

Renn discarded the odd woollen web and crawled onto the bed too. Perhaps in another week, he would finally become accustomed to the boots? Perhaps not... "You've only walked a few steps today, just up to the trees and back!"

"These foolish boots pinch my toes like the claw of the Great Hairy Crab!" Jabal rolled over onto his stomach, and groaned again.

"Stop groaning!" snapped Renn, and knowing that her husband would stoically and manfully refuse to request Healing (whilst continuing to complain of his hurts like a whiny child!) she promptly Healed Jabal without being asked to, which you really were not supposed to. Something to do with ethics.

"Better?" Renn asked, afterwards.

"They still hurt a little, wife," Jabal mumbled into the pillow.

Renn knew a request for a foot-massage when she heard one!

After a while, Jabal observed; "this is nice. It is nice, to be a married man."

Renn smiled, the expression mostly hidden by the unruly spikes of pale hair that were, as ever, hanging down over her brow. "And was it not nice _before_, my Lionfish, when you were a carefree sailor with a smoky-eyed girl awaiting you in every port?"

"Well yes, I suppose that was nice too- oww!" Renn stopped twisting her husband's big toe and resumed the foot-massage. Jabal spoke softly, half-asleep.

"I am glad that I married you, Sail-Mistress of my Heart."

"Well, I am glad I married you too, Blade-Master of my-"

Loud peremptory knocking on the door of their room. Renn knelt upright whilst Jabal grabbed his sword and leapt from the bed with an energetic spring. He was over by the door in a heart-beat, bare feet scuffing on the floor-boards.

"Who is it?" Jabal demanded, in his best Warder voice.

"It is _me!_ Renn Sedai? Are you within?" enquired a deep, muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"What is your _name?_" Jabal insisted.

"It is Wakime!"

Renn blinked. "Is that _you_, Lord Wakime?" she enquired.

"Yes! It _is_ Wakime!" confirmed the deep voice.

"Who is this Wakime?" Jabal wanted to know.

Renn laughed. "Oh, a funny Saldaean fellow who wanted to marry Shrina – he came all the way to Tar Valon once, to give her a silly sword with rude poetry engraved on the blade!" Jabal frowned. Swords were not put to this purpose amongst the _Atha'an Miere_… the Shorebound were truly strange, _especially_ these Borderlanders, from what he could tell. "Anyway, he made a _big_ scene and embarrassed poor Shrina in front of half the Tower, crying and wailing when she _still_ wouldn't accept his suit… then he heard that Myrelle was on her way back from Kandor so he jumped on his horse and galloped off as though the Dark One were chasing him!"

"You know that Wakime can _hear_ what you are saying, Renn Sedai?" complained the voice from the other side of the door, sounding hurt. Jabal blinked again, uncertain what to do. Renn made up his mind for him. A perquisite of wives.

"Well, don't just stand there, my fine fishy! Let him in!"

Jabal pulled open the door, and blinked. He was not particularly tall by Shorebound standards, though considered of greater-than-average height amongst his own people, but he was required to lower his gaze further than he would have thought necessary… the voice had sounded like that of a much _larger_ man. The short – _very_ short – Saldaean Lord gazed up at him with calm, tilted eyes. In addition to a lilac hat crowned with a big pink feather – that of the _fla'mingo_ of Shara, Jabal noted, his sister's husband often sold such – he wore a matching lilac coat slashed with dark green silk and embroidered with golden snarling wolf-heads, as well as trews tailored from what appeared to be purple crushed velvet!

As Lord Wakime strutted past him like a diminutive peacock, Jabal, in his cream silk shirt, crimson sash and dark blue oil-cloth britches, realised that he was no longer the most colourful thing in the room. He had been more colourful than Renn, certainly, who was less loudly-dressed than usual in one of the practical, brown silken gowns she had brought with her. She came over and, while her husband glowered, gave Wakime a warm hug, bending down a little while the Saldaean Lord went onto his tiptoes. He smiled up at her with genuine affection, rather than the other kind of smile he reserved for women he wished to bed.

"Ah, Renn Sedai, you are beautiful as ever, still a pale evening water lily, shrouded in white-gold effervescence, dew-kissed by the silvery moonlight…"

"Well, thank-you, Lord Wakime, for whatever _that _all meant. Have you grown? You seem to have got taller since last I saw you…"

"Regrettably not, Renn Sedai, Wakime is experimenting with special heels." Lord Wakime raised a beautiful burgundy leather riding boot to one side, pointing at the heel. It _did_ look higher than those usually seen on a man's boot.

"So what are you doing here, Alven Wakime?" Renn enquired.

"Oh, Wakime and his lancers were sent to this benighted place with the task of hunting down the remaining supporters of the False Dragon, but are now engaged in the killing of Shadowspawn instead... the Captain-of-Archers said that you were here, Renn Sedai, so Wakime has come to pay his respects."

"How polite!"

"And to invite you to dinner downstairs."

"Most kind of you, we accept! Why, _you_ must be 'His Lordship' that the soldiers keep talking about..." Renn blinked.

"Yes, that is me." Wakime nodded.

"I did not realise... I visualised a much... yes, well, never mind all that..."

Jabal coughed, pointedly. Renn recollected that she had a husband. "Oh, this is my… my Warder, Jabal din Sudim Lionfish. Jabal, this is-"

"I know, Aes Sedai. Lord Wakime. I _heard_."

Jabal eyed Wakime rather coldly, his ivory-hilted short-sword held in front of him, one of the tattooed hands resting on the hilt. Wakime had a finely-gloved hand resting lightly on his own hilt, just above the Heron-mark. The silence stretched out.

Renn sighed. "What can you tell me of that riderless horse, Lord Wakime?"

"Ellythia Sedai's mare, Renn Sedai? Wakime recognised it instantly when it came running towards him – it took all of bold Wakime's not-inconsiderable skill to capture the animal! Wakime fears that the Aes Sedai and her Warder (a good friend of his) may have come to some trouble, up in the wilds of World's End!"

"You have seen them? I knew that she was heading for Saldaea, but..."

"Aye, Renn Sedai, Ellythia Sedai and Atual Gaidin aided us in capturing the False Dragon. We fought together, side-by-side, against the Dragonsworn!"

"Ellyth helped catch Mazrim Taim? She didn't say anything about _that_ in her letter... But she is no Red! She _hates_ Reds!"

"Even so, the Blue Sister and her Warder took a hand in it, though I do not know where they went after Irinjavar… for some reason, they sneaked away early one morning without saying their goodbyes!" Lord Wakime shrugged. "The ways of Aes Sedai are strange indeed, and for them alone to know."

"Yes they are!" Renn slipped on her slippers and led the way from the bedroom, toward the rear stairs. "Back in Tar Valon, Rashiel told me she'd seen Ellyth also, but didn't say anything about her helping to catch the-"

"Rashiel Sedai is _alive?_ There have been strange goings-on in Maradon of late, when she disappeared without explanation, Wakime was extremely worried and feared the worst... for all that Rashiel had been very angry with Wakime because he smiled at a serving-maid... it was only an innocent smile, to thank the girl for helping Wakime find his other glove which he had mislaid in the back of that carriage... but even so, it is good to hear that she is safe at the White Tower. How did she get back there so soon..?"

Renn shrugged. She and Jabal had been lost in the Ways for what felt like a week... but in the world outside, two months had passed! They might just as well have made their misguided journey by more regularly travelled roads, though this might have taken all of _three_ months...

"It is nice to see you, Lord Wakime, opportune, even... but I thought you preferred to roam the Great Blight, hunting your monsters..?"

"Oh, Wakime _does_... there is much better sport to be had up there... but Wakime came here by choice. There have been heavy snows but when the Maradon road is open, the Headman – my Lord Bashere, that is – intends to take the caged False Dragon south to Tar Valon, a place that Wakime would far rather avoid..."

"Oh yes, Myrelle Sedai might be there!"

Lord Wakime winced, then nodded fervently. "Wakime volunteered himself and his lancers for this duty instead, just in case! He is supposed to be hunting Dragonsworn but has just been chasing smoke, there are none here... Wakime does not think he will find any – though he _did_ find this horse!"

They had descended the stairs, gone outside and reached the stables by this point... Renn looked at the tall, graceful animal in the stall. Eradore tossed her head and whickered. She stroked the pale mare's nose gently. "What is your Mistress doing right now?" Renn wondered.

"Do not fear, Renn Sedai, she has Atual Gaidin with her, and he is a capable fellow, almost as adept with a blade as peerless Wakime himself!"

"Goodness!" exclaimed Renn, impressed, adding, "but Ellyth is safe enough for the time being..."

Wakime frowned. "How do you know this, Renn Sedai?"

Renn flushed. "Oh... I'd love to tell you but it is an Aes Sedai secret, I am afraid..." Well, that was stretching the First Oath a little... but she _was_ an Aes Sedai, and it was _her_ secret, after all!

"Wakime loves secrets! Does it involve that eagle of yours, Renn Sedai?"

Renn flushed further. "It's not _my_ eagle... he just seems to like me for some reason!"

_The eagle spread its pinions as it descended into the clearing, where a pale-haired woman was leaning back against a tree with her eyes closed, a short, dark man crouching attentively beside her. The bird-of-prey landed on a low tree branch, gripping with its powerful talons, then folded its wings and looked down at the dead lamb that lay beneath. The eagle cocked its head to one side, quizzically. _

_Renn opened her eyes and frowned. She sat forward a little, cross-legged, the back of her gown somewhat besmirched with pieces of silvery tree bark as she had been leaning against a birch whilst communing with the bird. The sheer distance involved had necessitated entering a much deeper trance than usual, for a while she had practically _been_ the eagle, soaring over vast expanses... it felt more than a little strange to be back in her own body! She blinked a few times, rubbing her temples._

"_Urgh! It's always so odd seeing through _my_ eyes, after seeing through a bird's," she exclaimed. Jabal, squatting nearby, his sheathed blade resting across his knees, nodded. _

"_Do not try it with a fish, Mistress of the Eight Oceans," Jabal cautioned, "for you cannot swim, despite my efforts to teach..."_

_Renn noted that the eagle was still regarding the lamb with suspicion._

"_Well, what are you waiting for? Dig-in!"_

_The eagle eyed her for a moment, then hopped down to the ground and commenced feeding, tearing at the pink flesh with its powerful beak. Renn smiled. It was only fair, she had monopolised the poor creature's hunting time all day, after all – it deserved a good meal! Then, she remembered the news._

"_Oh, I saw Ellyth!" Renn exclaimed, "lots of Trollocs also... lots and lots of Trollocs... Fades... Draghkar, loads of _them_... I got chased by ravens too! Oh, and someone who must be that horrid old Darkfriend whom Ellyth and Shrina have fallen afoul of before, riding through the sky in a basket..."_

_Jabal was a little nonplussed by this. "Did you see Atual Gaidin?"_

_Renn rose a little unsteadily, retrieving her folded cloak which she had been sitting upon and sweeping it over her shoulders._

"_No... but I expect he is scouting about somewhere, even eagle-eyes would be insufficient to see him if he did not want to be seen... there _was_ another fellow with Ellyth who looked a bit like a Warder, though... he had rather strange eyes... and oddly, there was also an Aielman... it was very strange, Jabal, the one-eyed Aielman was crawling around on the ground while some... some Aiel_women_ were beating him with sticks! He seemed to be _laughing_ at them! And there were some more Aielmen, sort of... watching... _most_ unusual."_

"_They are strange, these Aiel..." Jabal commented, "and as for their women, I hear that they kill the Aielman, right after they have made love with him!" _

"_An understandable reaction with some fellows, according to Shrina!" Renn sighed. "Poor Ellyth! She has found herself with some rather strange travelling companions, and no mistake! But least she is alive... thank the Creator for that!"_

_As they walked back to the Inn, Jabal, limping a little in his foolish boots, glanced over his shoulder. The eagle appeared to be following them, hopping and flapping from branch to branch... Renn had not noticed. _

_"There seemed to be a good twenty Fists of Shadowspawn up there in the Peaks, as far as I could tell from their cookfires..." she mused. "I can't see us making our way through all of them, even if the Saldaeans help... Ellyth has the sea at her back and no way to get to us either, or she would have escaped the trap by now... besides, she has lost her horse and she hates walking!"_

_"That eagle is following us, wife. It keeps looking at you."_

_Renn did not hear. "Ellyth and her odd friends are stuck between the Ocean and at least a couple of thousand Trollocs, not to mention all of the other nasty Shadowspawn and ravens and Darkfriends... I think we're going to need a boat..."_

_"Or a ship," suggested Jabal, eagerly._

_"What is the difference?"_

_"A ship has-"_

_"Yaaa!" Renn jumped. The eagle had flapped over while they were talking and had chosen to surprisingly and alarmingly perch upon Renn's shoulder! Its claws looked very sharp, but it gripped gently enough with its talons, gazing down at Renn, buffeting her head with its wings a little before it folded them. It squawked._

_Renn sighed, and prodded the bird a little, but it declined to let go, and began to preen its feathers with a large, cruel beak. Fortunately, her cloak was thick wool, she could feel the power of its talons... Sometimes, she developed an affinity with certain creatures, when she used her particular Talent to see through their eyes and guide their movements... it seemed that this dratted eagle had taken a liking to her! She prodded it again but it just made a screeching sound, and stubbornly stayed where it was. _

_They had reached the outskirts of Seleisin by this point, and Renn blushed as she had to walk past numerous Saldaean Armsmen, who clearly found the eagle perched on the shoulder of the Aes Sedai a laudatory sight. By the way they pointed and whispered, she could have been channelling! Though perhaps a small flow of Air, to push this foolish bird off its rather nervous perch? No, every time she tried that, it just tightened its claws a little... it refused to flap off!_

_Some of the men from the Company-of-Pike garrisoning the village had been drafted in to look after the Inn, and a big Saldaean Hundredman, looking a little strange with an Innkeeper's apron tied over his leather armour, poked his grizzled head out of the rear door to the kitchen as they arrived in the yard. Black smoke emerged also. "Your meal is ready, Renn Sedai..." he mentioned, distractedly, waving a hand about a little. The rather scorched smells emerging from the kitchen along with the smoke did not seem appetising... _

"_I think we shall go up to our room to rest and perhaps dine later," Renn responded tactfully. Having survived the Ways, it would be ridiculous to succumb to food poisoning!_

_The Hundredman took note of the large bird obstinately occupying Renn's shoulder and raised his bushy eyebrows. The ways of Aes Sedai were strange indeed!_

"_...will you be needing any more lambs for your eagle, Renn Sedai?"_

"_He is not _my_ eagle! Go-away! Shoo!"_

The Inn's common room was a long, low-ceilinged chamber that took up most of the ground floor, set with stone flags, and as grim a place as the rest of the building, though a blazing fire in the large hearth banished at least some of the gloom. A merchant's train had arrived that morning, and nervous villagers had crept out of their homes to sell them the wool they had come for. Such business usually took place in the common room of the Inn, for all that those who had kept it were occupying a gibbet outside whilst clumsy soldiers inexpertly served the ale!

Even so, the common room was not particularly crowded for this late in the day, only a few of the locals having remained to mutter over mugs of cider about the dark happenings that had recently arisen to trouble their usually quiet village, whilst the merchants in their furs sat near the fire-place, discussing the current price of ice-peppers and whether various factors such as the weather and demand would make it rise or fall. Two hard-faced men and a harder-faced woman were over in the corner, Hunters for the Horn. They spoke quietly, no-doubt comparing notes on where they had and hadn't yet hunted. The remainder of those occupying the common room comprised soldiers; several officers and a few Queen's Armsmen serving them.

With the exception of the Gleeman. A tall, lean fellow, he was travelling with the merchants, on his way to Maradon, their destination after they had purchased their wool. He sat, perched on the edge of a table, his harp crooked in his arm, examining a large sheet of thick paper on which numerous lines of verse were printed in bold, black ink, moving his lips as though learning a new song, occasionally plucking a chord on his harp and singing a line softly, fixing it in his mind. He was clearly waiting for the place to fill up further before deigning to begin his performance.

Lord Wakime led the way to a table that had been left free, partially removed from the others by a wooden balustrade. One of the soldiers doing temporary duty as a waiter brought them all wine, and then the Hundredman appeared with a large tureen, from which he ladled a dark, oily substance into earthenware bowls. Renn sniffed and exchanged a mute glance of distaste with Jabal, sitting next to her; the bath and the bed had been very welcome, but she was glad they would be leaving this Inn on the morrow, for the food was atrocious! Wakime regarded the steaming liquid in his bowl with disfavour.

"What is this, Hundredman?"

"Soup, my Lord."

"What sort of soup?"

"Oh, it has all sorts of things in it, my Lord! It got a bit burned, but..."

Lord Wakime sighed. "If only we had not hung the cook," he muttered, "for all that she was a Darkfriend and would surely have tried to poison Wakime..." he took up his spoon and tasted the soup cautiously, shuddering as he swallowed "...which you are clearly attempting to do also, Hundredman!"

"Yes my Lord. Sorry my Lord."

When the apron-wearing Hundredman and the soldier-waiter had gone away, they pushed aside their bowls of vile soup and Renn rapped her knuckles on the table. "I call this meeting to order!" She turned to Lord Wakime.

"There are a great many Shadowspawn up in the peaks, Lord Wakime..."

"Wakime knows, he has scouts! Did your eagle tell you this, Renn Sedai?"

Lord Wakime's dark, tilted eyes were wide with interest and a touch of reverence – even the beasts and birds served the will of Aes Sedai! – for had not the noble creature attempted to flap down and sit obediently upon Renn Sedai's shoulder as they came back from the stables? Though she had cursed, and shaken her fist at it, so it had returned to its perch upon the gibbet...

"For the last time, it is not _my_ bloody eagle! It just won't go away!"

Lord Wakime ignored this. "Wakime's Plan is to form his men into a flying column and ride through the Trolloc lines in order to reach Ellythia Sedai..."

"I would have to come with you, of course..." said Renn. Jabal frowned.

"Wakime could not allow it! It is too dangerous, Renn Sedai..."

"You want to talk of danger? Try the Ways! And there's a bloody witch up there as well, you know! I mean, a Wilder, an evil old Darkfriend who could tie you and your men into knots without breaking sweat! Ellyth and Shrina ran into her once and barely survived the experience, if Moiraine Sedai hadn't come along when she did..." Renn blinked. "How many of these lancers do you have?"

"Wakime has his entire Honour Guard of fifty hand-picked men!"

"_Fifty?"_

Lord Wakime shrugged. "Wakime sent the rest back to the Border after we caught the False Dragon."

"Even if you managed to cut your way through the Trollocs, they would all be waiting for you on the way back – you'd never make it out of World's End alive!"

"But heroic Wakime's honour requires him to at least _try_ to rescue the Aes Sedai, and should he fall in the attempt, to provide an end worthy of song!"

"That's _stupid_, Lord Wakime! I have a _much_ better idea – a Plan B, if you will..." Renn smiled "...and the 'B' is for Boat!"

Renn then fell to discussing the difference between ships and boats with her Sea Folk Warder, and Lord Wakime's attention drifted somewhat. He thought that the Aes Sedai should be safe with a fellow like Atual Aendwyn to hold onto her hand... Wakime's ears pricked-up. He turned his head and stared at the tall Gleeman who was loitering nearby, still perusing the page – he could have sworn that he had just heard the fellow quietly singing a line of the song he was learning… that had his _name_ in it! Perhaps young Roth (he _presumed_ the Gleeman had found his way back down from the Blight, after Wakime had bravely led the Worm off in the opposite direction) had finally made good on his promise? And written a song about Wakime's illustrious adventures, giving copies of it to other Gleemen, to sing throughout the land? Could it be that at last, the world would come to hear of his bold exploits?

Lord Wakime was well aware that he already had wealth, good looks and a discriminating eye for fine clothes – but on top of this, he yearned for fame! He craved glory! Of course, none of this had anything to do with him being so small. For a thousand years, House Wakime had consistently bred the shortest, toughest and meanest of the Border Lords – and he was the epitome of that proud tradition! But while Lord Wakime was very well known in the Borderlands, even notorious, marriageable daughters often being locked in attics when he rode into its towns, no-one had ever heard of him down south. A few decent songs to tell the tales of his courageous deeds, doing the rounds of every Inn between here and Mayene, would soon change that! There it was _again_ – the tall Gleeman had just sung his _name_, under his breath.

Lord Wakime abandoned the nautical talk at the table and rose, approaching the Gleeman, who was wearing a rather shabby grey velvet coat and britches beneath his fluttering cloak of many patches, his boots somewhat scuffed. The Gleeman had long, black hair with Arafellin bells twined into the braids and a beak of a nose, a thin, carefully-clipped moustache lurking beneath. His dark eyes focused on Lord Wakime as the diminutive Saldaean marched up to him. He lowered the page.

"What was that, Gleeman?" Lord Wakime enquired briskly, "Wakime thought he heard you say his name..?"

The Gleeman inclined his head politely. "If you did, then you are indeed Lord Wakime, as you have so named yourself," he commented, "for it is _The Ballad of Lord Wakime_ that I learn by rote, prior to its first performance in this Inn, or perhaps… anywhere." Like most Gleemen, he was somewhat verbose.

Wakime chuckled, dragging up a chair and tossing a heavy gold crown onto the table the Gleeman was perched upon. "Wakime would very much like to hear this ballad about himself," he declared eagerly, "it is by young Roth Blucha, presumably?"

The Gleeman blinked. "Roth, yes… you _know_ him, my Lord?"

"Indeed, we journeyed through the Borderlands together and Wakime took him to see the Great Blight and show him what a Worm looked like so he could write a song about it – and several _more_ concerning fearless Wakime's other exploits!"

The Gleeman nodded. "Yes, there _is_ mention of that in the song… I had not realised that it was based on a _personal experience_ of Roth's…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "My Lord may not _like_ the ballad, however...?"

"Sing, Gleeman! Wakime wishes to hear of his adventures in song!"

"Well, if my Lord is certain…" muttered the Gleeman doubtfully, but he pocketed the gold crown and ran his fingers down the strings of his harp.

"Wakime is _sure!_ Play, good Gleeman! Sing!"

The Gleeman shrugged. And began to play a jaunty tune on his harp. And to sing, in a pleasant tenor, that filled the common room and turned heads;

"_He's a little fellow on a great big horse and his name is Lord Wakime!_

_(You must have heard of him of course for his name is Lord Wakime!)_

_He took me up to see the Blight that foolish Lord Wakime!_

_It gave me such a dreadful fright – in Tear they heard me scream!"_

Lord Wakime's mouth dropped open. The song continued. There was a lot more in this vein, steadily becoming less and less salutary. There were references to idiocy, as well as womanising and ridiculous clothing. And of course, _frequent_ mention of the diminutive size of the song's eponymous Hero! The merchants continued to discuss the price of ice-peppers in louder voices, but everyone else in the common room ceased their conversations to listen, some of the villagers clapping in time with the music, though the officers kept their hands firmly on the tops of tables and looked uncomfortable. Wakime was not clapping. Far from it. One hand rested on the hilt of his Heron-mark blade and Renn noted that his knuckles looked rather white. Finally, the ballad dragged to its ignoble end;

"_The Worm, it ate our horses both and chased us many miles!_

_But Lord Wakime gave not a fig – he was laughter, jokes and smiles!_

_He's a little fellow on a great big horse (you must have heard of him of course)_

_He feels no fear but that's not to say if you ride with him you'll feel that way_

_and I must admit I regret the day… I met crazy Lord Wakime!"_

The Gleeman bowed with a flourish, fluttering his patchwork cloak. Some of the villagers called out requests for various other refrains. By which point, Lord Wakime was glowering darkly, Jabal was looking rather confused and Renn was doing her best to avoid laughing, a hand pressed firmly over her mouth.

The Gleeman ignored the requests for more songs for the time being and glanced at Lord Wakime a little apologetically. "I did _try _to warn you that you might find the song objectionable, my Lord…"

"Enough!" Lord Wakime stood and tipped out his leather pouch onto the table beside the Gleeman. In addition to a goodly amount of gold, the pouch also contained a couple of large, uncut Kandori rubies! The Gleeman stared. Was the short Saldaean Lord giving all that to _him?_ Now he could finally get himself a _decent _harp and no longer be forced to use this vile tuneless article he had thus far sought to eke out a living with!

Lord Wakime scowled darkly up at the tall Gleeman. "That is yours, Gleeman, for the song and for _one_ other thing – Wakime wishes you to _burn_ your copy of that slanderous ditty and you must agree to _never_ sing it again!"

"_Done_, my Lord," agreed the Gleeman, hurriedly scooping up both gold and rubies and dropping them into his harp-case before the clearly-deranged Lord could change his mind, then passed him the page on which the words of the ballad were printed. Lord Wakime proceeded to screw this up into a ball and consign it to the flames in the hearth, before returning to stare dangerously up at the Gleeman.

"You shall never play it again, Gleeman." It was not a request but a statement.

"I shall certainly never do so again, my Lord, done-is-done and I should probably _not _have in any case – the ballad is a rather _poor_ refrain compared with one of my _own _compositions – but perhaps there is something that you do not fully appreciate, my Lord? If your intent is to _suppress_ this song and see to it that it is not _sung_ anywhere… well…" The Gleeman trailed off, tugging at his pointed moustache a little and eyeing Lord Wakime sideways.

"What does Wakime not appreciate, Gleeman?"

"Well, on the last day of the Feast of Teven, I was in The Companions just off Tammuz Square with about a dozen other Gleemen, engaged in something of a celebration, when Roth walked in, handed us all a copy of the song each, made us promise to sing it at least once in every Inn we played at for the next year… and then asked us where there were other Gleemen to be found… we knew of about eight more of our fraternity who were in the Bull & Bucket three doors along, so off he went to give them all a copy of _The Ballad of Lord Wakime_ too…"

Lord Wakime's lips moved slowly for a moment. Renn had come over to join them, she glanced down at him.

"About twenty Gleemen, Lord Wakime," she told him, helpfully.

"Thank-you. So, Gleeman, this song was given to about twenty-"

"My Lord, Roth Blucha was carrying at least _three hundred _copies of _The Ballad of Lord Wakime..._ and with the price of paper and printing as it stands! Most uncharacteristic of him. To the best of my knowledge, Roth has never so much as bought a cup of wine for a fellow Gleeman in his life, he has certainly never done so for me! And yet he paid – presumably out of his own pocket – for three-hundred copies! An extraordinary expenditure on Roth's part, considering how _tight _he is... I do believe that his intent was to give a copy of the Ballad to _every _Gleeman in Illian!"

Lord Wakime was beginning to go a little pop-eyed, and the tall Gleeman smiled in commiseration at the Lord who had, after all, just paid for his new harp...

"That would not be _three hundred_ Gleemen though?" Lord Wakime enquired, hopefully. Surely there could not be _that_ many Gleemen in the world?

"Considerably more, my Lord!"

Lord Wakime frowned, his brow furrowing. The most Gleemen he had ever seen in one place together had been _five_… he had never concerned himself with wondering how many of the silly, patch-cloaked fellows there actually _were_…

The Gleeman sighed. "My Lord, allow me to point out that when the Hunt for the Horn is called – which does not happen very often as I am sure my Lord is aware – then… well, the Feast of Teven _and_ the Great Hunt to Gleemen is… (if you will excuse the off-colour analogy) why, it is like a village full of fat people to a Fist of hungry Trollocs! Gleemen descend on Illian for the Hunt as swarms of flies do upon rotting meat! (Do pardon-me for that off-colour analogy also.) Why, last month, I do believe that every Gleeman in the _world_ not simple, crippled or dead was there!"

Lord Wakime scowled. "That sounds like a lot of Gleemen," he muttered.

"Indeed, my Lord, there are a great many of us! Gleemanry is a fine trade for a man who hates work! Though having made that last (rather off-colour) remark concerning 'simple, crippled and dead' it occurs to me that even poor Davim Kurinda (who got kicked in the head by his horse) was in Illian, as was old Vin Stoneheath, who lost a leg in the Aiel War, while young Huk Sandley (a mere Gleeman's apprentice and not a full Journeyman Gleeman such as myself) told me that he had seen the glowing blue ghost of Master Gleeman Thom Merrilin strolling about by the docks, blowing on a tin whistle (which seemed unlikely, since Thom scorns all instruments but the harp and flute, doubtless it was merely the unquiet spirit of _another_ Gleeman who closely resembles Thom) but _then_ Daevy Tamburlin, a Cairheinin Gleeman whom I have known for many years arrived late, on the last day of the Feast (his horse had gone lame, he was spitting blood about it!) and told me that the week before he had seen Thom briefly, galloping past him, going the other way up the Tar Valon road with a face like a storm-cloud, and since Daevy is a reliable man, I can only assume that Thom Merrilin is _not_ dead after all (though Journeyman Gleeman Sawle Hopwyn told me he died in a fire at an Inn in Whitebridge last year) which means that… yes... just about _every_ Gleeman in existence was in Illian for the Great Hunt of the Horn and has almost certainly been given a copy of _The Ballad of Lord Wakime,_ as written by Roth Blucha – with the _sole_ exception of Thom Merrilin, perhaps the only Gleeman in the world who does not yet know the words!"

For a moment, Lord Wakime allowed himself to hope that this vile Arafellin Gleeman had finally stopped talking, but the fellow was only taking a breath.

"But perhaps only _half_ of the Gleemen given the song will actually _sing_ it-"

"_Enough_, Gleeman! Why can one never get a quick answer from a Gleeman? Wakime has heard enough of these _other_ Gleemen who have so recently infested Illian like a vile plague of rats, lounging on scented cushions and drinking fine wines and writing rude songs about their betters whilst brave Wakime rides the Border and keeps them all safe from Worms and other even bigger monsters that devour Worms for their breakfast! _Gleemen!_ Why are there so _many_ of you? Has the Shadow begun breeding large amounts of Gleemen way up beyond the Great Blight, as with Trollocs? Will hordes of Gleemen pour south to trouble poor Wakime with their scurrilous lies about his intelligence and morals and _height?_"

"_And_ your silly clothes, Lord Wakime," Renn added, helpfully. "There was quite a lot in the song about the foolish garments that you wear, also."

"Thank-you, Renn Sedai. Thank-you very much for reminding Wakime of that. Silly garments. Yes." Wakime was staring into space, fingering his sword-hilt, brows beetled. It was fairly obvious that he was planning some sort of revenge.

Renn nodded her head politely in acknowledgement of Wakime's gratitude.

The Gleeman blinked, having not realised that Renn was Aes Sedai until that moment, for apart from a slight hint of agelessness, she really did not look like one.

"I think you are being a little unfair to Gleemen in general…" Renn added.

The Gleeman bowed to Renn smoothly, in gratitude for this defence of abused Gleemanry, fluttering his cloak a little. Renn smiled and nodded back. She had always quite liked Gleemen, they seemed rather jolly, cheerful people to her, though she was less interested in being told stories than reading them herself. In a book. If there was not some kind of a book involved, Renn was usually not interested!

Before the Gleeman could continue with further news of the doings of Gleemen, Lord Wakime rather rudely turned and stalked away. Renn smiled apologetically at the Gleeman, and followed him.

The Gleeman watched them go. The short Saldaean Lord with the odd hat had the right to be upset, he considered – and then wondered what he had _really_ done to inspire Roth's vitriol? A woman was involved, no-doubt! A woman was indeed involved – and her name was Shrinalla Tolamani! But the Gleeman did not know this, so he merely shrugged. Then, not cradling his harp particularly carefully, since he intended to set it afire after he had bought a decent one in Maradon, he strolled over to the fireplace where a few shreds of grey ash on the hearth-stones were all that remained of that particular copy of _The Ballad of Lord Wakime_. Now there were just two-hundred and ninety-nine left to similarly dispose of! And numerous Gleemen to silence, should they have memorised it beforehand... why, in order to save his reputation, Lord Wakime might have to threaten, intimidate and even slaughter many Gleemen indeed! But of course, there was one Gleeman in particular whose name was at the very top of that long list.

"Wakime believes that he shall pay a visit to Illian…" growled Lord Wakime.

"You are not going to _hurt_ Roth, are you?" Renn enquired, "Shrina would be most upset, he _is_ her girlhood friend, after all!"

Lord Wakime sighed, gustily. "Wakime would not wish to upset the lovely Shrinalla," he muttered. Then, he scowled. "But he shall go to Illian nonetheless – the honour of House Wakime is at stake! Shrina would understand!"

"But what of your duties?" Renn reminded him.

Lord Wakime recollected his duty, and scowled. "Wakime shall await cavalry reinforcements from the Capital, slay all of the Shadowspawn – and _then_ go to Illian! The wicked Gleeman has won himself a small reprieve from the Shadow, but Wakime's vengeance shall be all the sweeter for it!"

"And what of the Great Blight?" Renn suggested, rather desperately.

"Curse the Blight! Wakime shall return in due course, it will still be there when he gets back – but _first_, there is a matter of honour to settle with a certain Gleeman!"

"Oh dear, you _are_ going to hurt him, aren't you?" Renn had met Roth once, when he came to Tar Valon for a visit, in company with Ellyth and Shrina, having encountered them on of one of their _ter'angreal_ finding quests… she had thought the young Gleeman quite nice, certainly _fun_, if a little full of himself…

Lord Wakime continued to scowl furiously, and did not answer.

Renn sighed. "That is a fine Heron-mark blade you have there, Lord Wakime," she muttered, "but the _pen_ will defeat it every time, I am afraid!"

"Hah! Wakime shall see about that when he gets to _Illian_, Renn Sedai, when he digs the loquacious Gleeman – the satirical rapscallion! – from whichever garret room in whatever low dockside tavern he is currently swinishly occupying! Then, if Roth Blucha, Gleeman, wishes to set his pen against Wakime's sword, that will be perfectly acceptable!"


	3. Chapter 9: Below the Tomb

_**Gleeman Bob writes:** sorry about the wait, the hard-working Gleeman has been writing some other non-Wheelish things... this is a bit of an information chapter, but I have tried to make it entertaining and maybe even... exciting! but that is not for me to say, it is for you to decide when you write me a review... I wish to extend a big thank-you to everyone who has been reading He Sleeps Under the Hill, and if you haven't already then don't be shy, do please let me know what you think of the story so far! _

_next up: a short story entitled The Tale of the Nightwatcher and Chapter 10... the long-postponed Guaire Amalasan flashback chapter! (it was supposed to be Chapter 6 but Shrina's Horn-Hunting intervened...)_

_then on to Chapters 11 & 12 which will run consecutively and contain ADVENTURE ON THE HIGH SEAS! __and many another thing also... after which, except for the epilogue chapter, that will be the end of HSUtH... but there are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time, after all. _

_as always, respects to the Master Gleeman and his wonderful world..._

_Walk in the Light! _

* * *

><p><em>He fought and he fell, for the Dragon. He died for you. 'Hero' is a much overused word, but my Son was a Hero, in every sense of that word. When you come here, remember him. He died for you.<em>

_**Chaime Kufer Aes Sedai **_

_**(dedication at Tomb of the Firstborn)**_

_**[Office of Public Record – Grand Hall of the Servants – Paaran Disen]**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine * Below the Tomb<strong>

"_This one was slow..._"

A pale head, neatly severed from the body at the neck, sailed out of the darkness and tumbled toward the cowering Trollocs, who flinched back from it, pressing closer to the fire. The head had no eyes, just smooth, featureless skin where the sockets should have been, the lips drawn back in a frozen, snarling rictus.

From out of the night, the strange, throaty voice spoke again, hissing and growling harsh words in the Shadow Tongue;

"_This one was even slower..._"

Another severed Myrddraal head, tossed into the circle of firelight, landing and rolling, lank, dark hair twisted about a pale, inhuman face. The Trollocs whined, shoving back against each other in a huddled mass.

"_This one was faster_..." continued the voice, implacably. A further head came flying out of the darkness to roll to a stop at the clawed and hoofed feet of the Trollocs, who cringed away from it. A chuckling sound emerged from the night. "_...but not near fast enough!_"

More Myrddraal heads followed in slow, awful succession, the voice describing each disparagingly. The Trollocs hunched closer to the flames, none of them wishing to be at the edge of the circle, near to the darkness. It was out there, something that hunted and killed them in the deep dark of the night, that watched from the shadows with its glowing eyes. It was not one of the Spear-demons, though they were bad enough. It was something else. Something much worse. It liked to call to them from the dark while they huddled around the fires, snarling in their own harsh speech, telling them about what it planned to do to them later on that night.

The Myrddraal went out to find it and kill it. A half-dozen of them, dark blades drawn and at the ready, enough to destroy anything. For a time; silence. Then, metal clashing on metal out there in the night, the Trollocs listening nervously, the flash of blue sparks flaring in the pitch blackness... towards the end, an angry snarl followed by the high-pitched, buzzing sound of a Myrddraal's screams... and for a time, silence again. Then, a low, hissing noise, just at the edge of the firelight... and the severed heads had come sailing out of the night, one by one, whilst whatever it was out there spoke to them in its disquieting voice;

"_This one_..." strangely, there was a note of grudging respect as the final Myrddraal head was tossed from the darkness "..._not so slow... cut me_..." This head had not been sliced from the shoulders like the others, but seemed to be still attached to a section of spine, the skin around the stump ragged and ripped. "..._made me angry._" It was as though the Myrddraal's head had been... torn off.

"_Very angry!_" And whatever it was, out there in the darkness, it laughed, a strange, mewling sound that set the Trolloc's teeth on edge. That was the worst part – the way it laughed. It seemed to think that all of this was funny, that it was a _game!_ The Trollocs did not like it here, up in these mountains. They wanted to be sent to somewhere else. _Anywhere_ else... even _Djevik K'Shar_... even to the Dying Ground.

"_Tired, now_." A yawning noise echoed from the surrounding darkness. "_Sun rises soon. Light shines down on me. Time to sleep. Spawn-of-the-Dragon will see you again tonight, Shadow-filth, if you are still here... we will play some more, you and I!_"

* * *

><p><strong>Part I: <strong>_**Vron'cor**_

Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah and her temporary Warder, Naythan Shieldman, watched from a low rise whilst the Maidens of the Spear beat Cohradin with weighty sticks that they had cut from stunted trees and trimmed with their belt-knives for the purpose of observing _ji'e'toh_. The other Knife Hands squatted around their leader and his chastisers in a loose circle, witnessing gravely.

"_Ou'ch!_" groaned the Shieldman sympathetically, as a particularly savage blow landed across Cohradin's back. Ellyth was not sure what '_ou'ch_' meant, she had never heard the word before, presumed it to be of the Old Tongue. He _kept_ saying it!

"The Aiel take their affairs of honour seriously, it would seem," Ellyth murmured, then flinched delicately as Cohradin unwisely straightened-up from his crouching posture and a gruesome stick blow hit him somewhere that she knew men did not like to be hit.

"_Indubitably_..." The Shieldman uttered the word slowly, with relish, his husky voice slightly sonorous. Ellyth eyed him pointedly, but he did not notice. Or perhaps was only _affecting_ to not notice her annoyance, he seemed to do that a great deal. Strange that he could _notice_ Draghkar and ravens that were too far away for even the sharp-eyed Aiel to see, yet remain blissfully unaware of the facial expressions of the person standing right next to him!

Ellyth sniffed. He did not seem to ever notice _that_, either, except on that one occasion when he had been _very_ annoying with his incessant questions about grammar and syntax, while she had been experiencing a particularly intense post-almost-stilling-oneself headache, and she had sniffed _several_ times. She had actually rather wanted to shout at him, but that would only have aggravated the sharp, needle-like sensations in her temples. In apparent response to the sniffing, he had solicitously enquired whether she had... what had he _meant?_ What in the Wheel was '_n'flu'nza?_' _Another_ bloody Old Tongue word that she did not know, presumably! She had tried to enquire about this, but then noted that he was smiling at her. So, Ellyth had raised a frigid eyebrow, fixing him with a cool gaze – the same expression that had never had the slightest affect on dear Atual either – and the Shieldman had _sniffed!_ Sniffed, in an offended way, and put his nose in the air for a moment!

Why did she get the feeling that her glares were nothing to him, not because he did not respect her, she was Aes Sedai after all and he seemed to genuinely live to serve them, as it was said by the Aiel that they once had… but simply because, she had gathered from certain things he had said, that he had been accustomed to serving Age of Legends Aes Sedai who made her look like… nothing. Probably, if Cadsuane had been around back then, _she_ would have been the one holding the plate and offering the cucumber sandwiches to the Dragon or the Lady Ilyena Sunhair – oh, he had met _her _as well, by the way! She had been very kind and beautiful, apparently...

And _why_ did she also get the impression that the Shieldman seemed to think that everything up to and including avoiding and outwitting the horde of Shadowspawn that had slowly been driving their small party toward the Aryth Ocean, was some sort of a _game_ – a dangerous game, perhaps, but not for him!

Maddening! But Ellyth had to ask;

"Naythan Gaidin, I wondered, is the blonde Maiden-"

"Jahdi, Mistress."

"Thank-you. Is Jahdi actually _permitted_ to strike Cohradin in the… in his… _between_ the legs... with the stick, in that fashion?"

"Presumably, Mistress. Possibly, if perhaps... presumptuously..." The Shieldman pronounced the words with slow enjoyment.

Ellyth set her teeth and chose to ignore this. _Sniffing_ certainly did not answer! "Well," she murmured, "this Cohradin fellow _does_ behave rather as one of those Heroes of the ancient sagas – the more brutish, savage manner of Hero who did not end bound to the Horn of Valere, I mean – and since Heroes so seldom seem to live long enough to father children..."

"Regrettably so, Mistress – but _still_... a dishonourable blow! _Ou'ch!_"

Ellyth moaned quietly, then bit her lower lip.

The Shieldman did not seem to notice. "_Ji'e'toh_," he added, as though this excused so savage a beating. Though Cohradin was not screaming or crying out, if covered in bruises and weals, as well as his own blood – he kept _grinning_ at the Maidens and _laughing_ at them whilst they beat him, which only seemed to make them more angry and hit harder with the sticks! The other Aielmen watched silently... Ellyth thought that she could detect vague disapproval in their features, though it was hard to tell from those stony, much-scarred faces... well, but for the youth, he just looked rather bored... his eyes kept flicking toward the Shieldman, for some reason.

Ellyth was still not even entirely sure _why_ Cohradin was being beaten. The Aiel had been reticent on the subject. And at the first opportunity, had insisted upon conducting this brutal ceremony... Cohradin most of all!

Ellyth sighed. Aielmen (and Aiel_women_, since _they_ were doing the hitting) were the _oddest_ people, almost as odd as the Shieldman. Atual had been right about that, and so much else. On some days, Ellyth thought that she was going to end as mad as _they_ all obviously were!

A splintering, cracking sound. Cohradin laughed louder.

"_Ou'ch_," groaned the Shieldman, yet again, "Manda breaks her stick over Cohradin's head... she grows angrier… she kicks him…"

"Manda is the red-head?"

"She is, Mistress."

"Then if Manda no longer has a stick, and if... if Jahdi's arm is yet tired, then perhaps this bizarre ritual is finally at an _end _and we might continue our flight from danger _before_ the sun has quite set, yes?"

"But no, Mistress, see – Jahdi passes Manda a _new_ stick, and the Trial of Honour continues! _Ji'e'toh!_"

Ellyth closed her eyes and groaned softly.

"It is all so… violently and vividly vicarious!"

Ellyth scowled. "Master Shieldman?"

"Yes, Mistress Sedai?"

"I am delighted that your Vulgar has improved so rapidly."

"Facilitated by _you_, Mistress Sedai! The excellence of your tutoring in the fundamentals of vulgar verbiage and verbality have been-"

"Master Shieldman! Shut-up!"

Ellyth took a deep breath, and continued in more even tones;

"Master Shieldman, your improvement in the usage of the Vulgar speech in the course of the last days has been truly phenomenal. But _please_ try to restrict yourself to the shorter, more convenient terms. And _do not_ make-up any more words! '_Verbality?_' "

"Yes Mistress Sedai. Sorry Mistress Sedai." He was smiling that provoking half-smile while his strange eyes watched the Aiel.

"Mother's Milk! Elide the 'Sedai' – it is an unnecessary adjunct to the title I have repeatedly asked you to _solely_ employ-"

Another vicious stick-blow across Cohradin's shoulders!

"_Ou'ch!_ _Ji'e'toh..._ much honour! Much blood, too! Sticks! Painful!"

Ellyth groaned again, and somehow managed to resist the urge to commence weeping hysterically. If she did not get away from World's-bloody-End _soon_, she would end up as mad as a male-Channeller! Madder! Between the Shieldman and the Aiel, she was going to go completely crazy! _Especially_ the Shieldman, he was the strangest person she had ever met, even stranger than some of Shrina's acquaintances… and she found herself thinking about that morning.

Ellyth had awoken in the deep dell hidden by trees within which they were encamped, to see that the Shieldman was asleep across from her, curled up in a ball with his odd fancloth double-cloak wrapped about him. Atual's blade rested near at hand, in its worn, leather scabbard. He did not seem to like letting it out of his sight.

_Ellyth checked the Wards automatically, though Shadowspawn had yet to trespass on the weaves of Spirit and Fire she set nightly. The Trolloc Fists were out there, blocking their path to safety, all attempts at skirting around them had been thwarted... but the Shadowspawn, for their part, did not seem to want to come too close. Especially at night... she often awoke to the sound of harsh screams in the distant darkness, noting that the Shieldman's blankets were always concurrently empty._

_There was no sign of the Shaido Aiel, but she suspected that a couple of them at least were lingering in the area whilst the rest scouted the enemy, or hunted for food – she was getting rather tired of hare! There were only so many ways you could cook the things, and they tended toward stringiness... In any case, she would not see the Shaido until they chose to be seen. In the near distance, she could hear the waves of the Aryth Ocean breaking against the cliffs... and her dark, liquid gaze moved to the Shieldman._

_Oddly, considering how long he had slept until the advent of his awakening, it was rare enough to see the Shieldman sleeping. He did not need to sleep very often, apparently – he had told her only every couple of days, and that during the day, in brief intervals here and there, because the nights were when he was at his most 'active.' Whatever that meant. He must have come back late from his nightly scout, or whatever it was he did out there in the darkness… must be taking a catnap._

_The Shieldman was dreaming, twitching in his sleep. Ellyth watched, wondering what he dreamt of. The fingers of his gloved hands were clawed, making slow, scrabbling motions… and with the slow realisation of the newly awoken, Ellyth apprehended with some shock that he had a look of profound worry on his face… she had never seen him look even slightly concerned before! She had not thought he was capable of anything approaching trepidation… What could he be dreaming about? The Dark One? The Forsaken?_

"_Sorda…" muttered the Shieldman, sleepily, "...sorda." Then, he opened his strange eyes, blinking swiftly a few times. "Sorda?" _

_The Shieldman noticed that Ellyth was watching him, and swiftly pushed himself upright to the cross-legged, seated posture he seemed to favour. He glanced down at Atual's sword, smiled, then affectionately patted the Power-wrought blade a few times, before nodding politely to Ellyth._

"_A good morning to you, Mistress." _

"_Good morning, Naythan Gaidin." Ellyth raised an eyebrow, taking care to keep her tone casual. "You were dreaming, and I fear that you may have looked rather... troubled. Of what did you dream, if I might enquire?"_

_The Shieldman blinked and scratched his brow beneath the black band that he never removed, except for that day a fortnight before, when he had shown her what his ears looked like. Scratched with a metal-tipped, gloved finger. He never seemed to take his gauntlets off, or his boots either for that matter. At least, not where anyone could see. Ellyth frowned. The Shieldman looked mildly confused as he attempted to recall..._

"_Dream... I do not know… perhaps… chasing something..? Trying to catch it, but it is always too fast, it keeps getting away from me…" He shivered a little. "Maybe they wanted to take my sword… they are always taking things that do not belong to them!"_

"_They?"_

"_I do not know, Mistress… it is… something that bothers me, but when I wake up I do not remember what they are… I want to catch them and stop them from taking and eating things… stealing food from Aes Sedai… but when I chase them, ever are they too swift for me." He shrugged. "Dreams... they can be funny things!"_

"_Indeed they can, Naythan Gaidin." _

Though he still spoke in an antique fashion at times, placing his words in an atypical order and neglecting the occasional pronoun, the Shieldman's speech had improved at an amazing rate, she considered. She had spent the first week constantly correcting him (she only ever needed to do so once for each word) until his Vulgar had become perfectly adequate for her purposes, and the second week providing him (at his incessant prompting!) with every longer term she could think of, _with_ its definition, which words he soaked-up with equal rapidity, and proceeded to use _unnecessarily_ at every given opportunity… and _now_ he had started to invent _new _bloody words!

Though grateful to the Shieldman for saving her life and, along with the Aiel, escorting her through this dangerous territory, Ellyth sometimes felt as though he had been sent to her by the Pattern as some sort of test of her patience – in addition to being an extremely capable warrior with a head full of lost Age of Legends lore, he was also quite easily the most infuriating person she had ever met! And he undoubtedly _was_ a person, for all that he did not seem to think of himself so – anyone with such an excess of _personality_ bloody-well _had_ to be!

Odd, about the dream, though. She wondered what he had been so worried about? She did not like to think! But… stealing _food_ from Aes Sedai? That did not sound like something the Dark One would do… well, Shai'tan _might_, she supposed, but it did not seem _that_ worrying, it was not on quite the same level of evil as the Trolloc Wars, was it? She wondered what '_sorda_' meant? She would ask the big Aielman, he seemed fairly well-conversant with the Old Tongue, certainly more so than her… well, even _Shrina_ spoke the Old Tongue better than she! Though Shrina's Vulgar, while often suitably vulgar, could certainly use improvement. Ellyth considered knowing one language _very_ well better than knowing two, not so well.

"Mistress?"

"Mmm?"

"_Ji'e'toh_... I think it is over now."

"_Finally!_"

* * *

><p>'<em>Whack.<em>'

"Ha-ha-hah! Try harder, _Far Dareis Mai!_"

'_Whack._'

"I am sorry, did you just strike me? I cannot be sure-"

'_Whack._'

"I may have felt something that time..?"

'_WHACK._'

"Did a fly just land upon my shoulder? I am uncertain-"

"Aaahh! Be silent, Cohradin!"

'_Whack-whack-whack._'

"Mayhap it was not a fly, but a jumping flea, that leapt from out of your hair, Maiden?"

"AAAHH!"

'_Whack-whack-whack-whack-WHACK-CRA-ACK!_'

"Ha-hah! Oh dear, you have broken your stick also, Jahdi, and now there are none left... perhaps Manda will lend to you _her_ stick, while she yet recovers her breath?"

"Shut-up, Cohradin!"

'_WHACK._'

"There it was again, Manda, did you see? A bee landed upon my back and then flew away – odd, for I am not the flowering _rocha_-plant..."

"Stand aside, Manda – I still have my boots and Cohradin yet has _toh_ to pay!"

"Kick-away with your soft feet, _Far Dareis Mai_, one-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ cares n-"

'_THUDD._'

"Ugh! Do not kick me... _there!_ That is where you hit me with the stick, also! Shame be upon you, Jahdi... you have as little honour as Sulin of the Taardad!"

'_WHACK._'

When Cohradin regained consciousness, he blinked the blood out of his eye and noted with interest that the eagle was still up there, circling slowly over the clearing. Odd behaviour for an eagle, for with the loud _toh_-giving, they would have scared all of the game away from this vicinity by now, surely? But perhaps the wetlands eagle behaved differently from that of the Three-fold Land... he would ask Gerom.

The Aes Sedai, appeared, leaning solicitously over him. "I see you, Ellythia Desiama," Cohradin acknowledged, then grinned. "Ah, Aes Sedai, you have witnessed how I have met my obligation to these violent females!" Cohradin attempted to rise, but found that he was not yet able to.

"I have indeed," the Aes Sedai murmured, with a slight shudder. "So... it is all over now, yes? Do you require Healing? Well, clearly you _do_, but one is supposed to ask, first."

Cohradin shook his head, continuing to grin through the mask of drying blood that obscured his much-scarred features...

"Healing? Not I... but I fear for these Maidens of the Spear, who may have wrenched their shoulders and blistered the delicate skin of their palms on those rough sticks..."

"Shut-up, Cohradin! Do not listen to him, Aes Sedai!"

"We do not need healing either, Aes Sedai!"

In addition to sounding angry, the Maidens also sounded somewhat breathless.

The Aes Sedai frowned, her delicate brows drawing down, giving her the aspect of a Wise One, somewhat. "Do not talk nonsense, you silly man! You _clearly_ require Healing, you cannot stand at the moment, let alone walk – what if the Shadowspawn attack?"

The Aes Sedai's strange Warder appeared at her side. "They are coming, Mistress, but will not be here 'til near dark..." he reported, in his throaty voice.

"I see you, Naythan Shieldman," declared Cohradin.

"Well, I see you also, Cohradin, but wish that I did not... terrible, you look!"

The Aes Sedai was frowning at her Warder. She often did that.

"What do you mean, the Shadowspawn are coming?" she demanded.

"There was a raven, Mistress, it saw us. It will tell its Myrddraal where we are."

"Why did you not inform me of this before?"

"Did not wish to interrupt _ji'e'toh!_ Not honourable, so to do!" The Aes Sedai made that sniffing sound she often made and her Warder shrugged. "Only one Shadowman, with some Beastmen, doubtless..." he tapped the strange badge he wore on his coat "...still one league distant. Time enough to set ambush, if Trial of Honour is completed?"

Naythan Shieldman extended a helpful hand toward Cohradin, who yet lay supine upon the ground. Cohradin waved the gloved hand away – the Warder always seemed to wear these gauntlets – and stood unaided, swaying a little. He was clad in only his smallclothes, his back and shoulders covered liberally with red weals and striations left by the sticks, his scalp split so that blood ran annoyingly into his eye. But this was nothing! Sulin had done _far_ more painful things to him, and as for those Tomanelle, beating him with the spiny cactus branches... well, he had had worse!

Cohradin glanced up at the sky, shading his eye. "That eagle is still there," he observed, "ah, no, it flies away now." He lowered his hand, still swaying slightly.

The Aes Sedai was regarding him with the concern reserved both for the sick and injured, but also for those who might not be quite right in the head.

"Are you _sure_ that you do not require Healing?" she enquired, insistently.

Cohradin shook his head. "I am fine, Aes Sedai, a few womanish stick-blows are nothing to a Knife Hand..."

The Maidens glared at Cohradin, though they were still looking somewhat red-faced and out-of-breath... Cohradin noted this, and resumed his grin.

"Besides, now that _Far Dareis Mai_ have given me so girlish a beating, it is time to demand that my brother _Sovin Nai_ let me give them yet more _toh!_"

The Aes Sedai gaped. "You mean that it isn't _over?_" Her voice sounded choked. Cohradin continued to grin, through the blood. "When you insisted that we observe this... this ceremony, I had no idea that... that... _Light!_ Atual was _right_ – you are _all_ bloody mad!"

Cohradin was not listening. "Well, knife-brothers, what of my obligation?"

Gerom frowned, rising. "Cohradin, it was not seemly to give _toh_ in that fashion..."

"How so?"

"Laughing and jesting! It is more honourable to maintain a dignified silence whilst-"

"Bah! Well? What of you, my near-brothers? What _toh_ do you require for my having led you here to this place where we did not manage to find He Who Comes with the Dawn?"

"You have no _toh_ to me, Cohradin," piped-up young Tevin, loyally, but no-one paid any attention to him.

Cohradin staggered a bit, and Gerom put out a long arm, laying a meaty hand on his shoulder to hold him upright. He shook his large head slowly.

"_Toh?_ What is the use, Cohradin? When we were boys and you misbehaved (which you did often) Sadora beat you until her arm was too tired to yet raise the belt, and it made no difference! You will never change, my brother, regardless of _ji'e'toh_, and we both know it. You have no _toh_ to me..." Gerom sighed "...for all that I should have liked to visit that strange, metal tower..." he shrugged his massive shoulders "...though there are similar things to see here, in these parts, strange relics of the Age of Legends, I would suppose."

Cohradin frowned, disappointed, then regarded Chassin blearily through a veil of blood with his single eye. "And you, my friend? What _toh_ do you claim?"

Chassin squinted. "Lean down a little, near-brother..."

Cohradin leant down a little. Chassin struck him a glancing blow on the forehead with his bull-hide buckler. Cohradin grinned.

Chassin frowned. "There, brother – _now_ you have no _toh_ to me."

"Nor to me either," Tevin chimed-in, but was ignored. He scowled. But then, his eyes drifted toward Naythan Shieldman, as they often did. He knew the others were wondering about the Aes Sedai's strange new Warder. But he was not – at least, not any _more_. For after all, unlike the others, he had _seen_, seen the mark on his chest! _The Sign!_ Naythan Shieldman was _not_ He Who Comes With the Dawn, true – but he was not 'Naythan Shieldman' either, he was no ordinary man, this was clearly just a pretend-name to hide his secret identity. And now, Tevin knew _exactly_ who he was!

* * *

><p>Ellyth was frowning. It was becoming a permanent expression, the muscles around her eyes were getting sore! "What do you mean, you <em>wanted<em> the raven to see us?" she demanded. The Shieldman was giving her that innocent look again, his cobalt-blue eyes wide and blameless, as though that would fool anyone! _Just_ as he had when he protested that interrupting this ridiculous '_ji-ti-toe_' ritual, or whatever it was called, would be dishonourable. _Honestly!_ For someone who had seen seventy-eight summers, he behaved more like a ten-year-old half of the time! And as for the Aiel... beating each other with sticks! It was like something the Red Ajah might get up to! As if they did not have more important concerns... mere survival, for example.

"The raven will tell the Myrddraal where we are... the Myrddraal will come to here... _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ will kill the Myrddraal..." the Shieldman was explaining with slow patience, as though she did not grasp the minutiae of the situation.

"It matters little how many Fades you dispose of," Ellyth protested, "more will just come out of the Ogier Waygate!" The information from the Aielmen had been shocking, revelatory... she had long suspected that Shadowspawn were somehow bypassing the Blight-border to raid south, as had the Trolloc Fist that pursued them in Arafel, but using the _Ways_... she had thought them a myth, only.

"Then I will keep killing them when they do," the Shieldman muttered, sounding sulky. "Slew six last night, did I," he added, under his breath, lower lip projecting somewhat as his strange eyes looked down at his soft-booted feet. Almost certainly sulking...

The Shaido had retrieved their spears and seemed to be on the verge of wrapping those dark veils around the lower part of their faces, even Cohradin, who despite having washed off the blood and applied one of the Shieldman's strange bandages to his scalp, was still looking somewhat the worse for wear.

The Shieldman started toward them. "Please to wait here, Mistress, I will take Shaido and disperse the enemy-" He paused when he saw she was following him.

Ellyth scowled. "I do not see why it should be you and the Aiel alone who join battle with the Shadowspawn, whilst I sit twiddling my thumbs, Master Shieldman!"

"Best you stay hidden, Mistress Sedai – 'tis _you_ for whom they search."

"How do you know this?" Ellyth had suspected that she was the object of this Shadowspawn incursion, she and Atual... but there was absolute certainty in his eyes.

"How?" the Shieldman responded, "why, asked a Trolloc!" He said this with a toothy smile.

"You... _asked_ a..." The Aiel stirred, eyeing the Shieldman.

"Did not _want_ to tell me! Had to..." the Shieldman blinked, shrugged. "Think you would rather not know, Mistress. But _made_ it talk, did I... Wolf-Trolloc, it was, they are usually less stupid... but smell even worse than _other_ kind of Beastmen! (Excepting Goat-Trolloc, mayhap...) Betimes, I asked of it; 'why came you here, _chu'mira?_' and answered it (eventually) 'to catch Firewoman' and also, 'to bring her to crone, yet uneaten.' Ensured Beastman was speaking truthfully, before put from out of its misery..."

Ellyth shivered slightly. Something in his eyes, about the way he spoke, the absolute conviction... she had a feeling that when it came to eliciting information from Shadowspawn, the Shieldman could teach a thing or two to the Questioners!

The Shieldman nodded, firmly; "'tis _you_ they seek, Mistress – hidden should you remain. Only single Fists of scouts there are, searching hither and yon, but should they scent their quarry, _all_ will come. Too many for Shaido... too many even for Shieldman!"

Ellyth blinked, recalling something. "Wait... _crone?_"

"Not sure, Mistress... Beastman said it was scared of her, almost as much as was scared of _me_... a Friend of the Dark, mayhap..."

"I am perfectly well aware of the identity of this... crone, Naythan Gaidin." Ellyth scowled. Arachnae Kirikil... She would settle with that... that evil old _hag_, if it was the last thing she did. Though the attempt might well be.

"Then you will remain here, Mistress? The young Shaido can stay with you, to ensure your protection-"

"Contrary to what you seem to perceive, I am _not_ made out of spun glass, Master Shieldman!" Ellyth swept past him and approached the Aiel, who were now lingering at the edge of the clearing, fingering their spear-points, clearly impatient to be about the business of killing Shadow-wrought. Or 'waking' them, as she believed they termed it. Well, she would do some awakening of her own! Atual would have approved. Of course, he would _not_ have approved of her putting herself in the way of danger, but Ellyth put this inconvenient thought out of her mind, addressing Cohradin;

"I believe that you might have once mentioned observing my 'fires' as you put it, Master Aiel." _Well, spying on me, at least!_

"Yes, Aes Sedai, I have seen them." Cohradin's face was grave.

"Well, you are about to see them _again_, yes? Now, here is what we shall do."

Cohradin leant forward respectfully as Ellyth began to scratch in the dirt with a stick, the other Knife Hands and Maidens observing closely. After a moment, Ellyth glanced up at the Shieldman, who loitered several paces away and appeared to be pouting. "Pay attention, Naythan Gaidin! My father always told me that a plan of battle is of little use unless _all_ of the participants are aware of what it actually _is!_" He came over, glanced at the arrow that represented him, listened to what he was supposed to do and, with a sketchier bow than usual, disappeared soundlessly into the trees. Ellyth frowned, and then sighed, rubbing at her forehead where there were undoubtedly lines forming... he was _definitely_ sulking!

* * *

><p>Still feeling sulky, N'aethan sat curled in the hollow, beetle-eaten tree-trunk, hidden beneath fancloth and dead leaves, only his eyes visible, impatiently waiting for the last of the Beastmen to go past. Their rank odour drifted in the wind, filling his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Only <em>dogs<em> smelled worse than Trollocs! Well, slightly. His nose also told him that there was but one Shadowman, though his Shield-_ter'angreal_ was already providing this information, the details and locations of such things a small bundle of sensations in the back of his mind, as ever. There was a Draghkar too, approaching. His Shield was never wrong. The powerful _ter'angreal_ was also the reason why the Beastmen – those with keen noses, at least – could not smell _him_ in turn. Which was well, for the Aes Sedai wanted the Shadow-wrought to walk unhindered into the ambush up ahead and there was something about the way he smelled that disturbed and upset Beastmen. Sometimes he removed his Shield and let them scent him a-purpose, to induce panic before he attacked.

It had several properties, his Shield, the masking of his distinctive odour being but one. Like a _paralis-net_ in one package, though he did not need to wear it in his hair, fortunately! And attuned to him alone... the War-Sisters had used some of his blood when they made it, he believed, not troubling to ask his permission – well, lying on the critical-bed in the infirmary, swathed in bandages and splints, he had been ill-placed to object! And there had still been a fair amount of blood leaking out of him even so, plenty for the Sisters to collect. N'aethan fervently hoped that he would never have to fight a _Gholam_ again... though that might prove to be wishful thinking. They were not far from Father's secret place, here, he suspected... well, he would see.

N'aethan gave it one-hundred hand-counts after the last Beastman had shambled past, then wriggled his way out of his hiding place and followed the Shadow-wrought at a distance, padding silently through the thin, scrubby forest. At one point, he slipped into the hollow beneath a fallen tree and lay flat. He shaded his eyes and watched as the Draghkar flew past, high overhead, following the Shadow-wrought column's line of march. And he saw what it held, in its clawed hands.

N'aethan scowled. Too late to warn the others, now... well, at least it had not seen _him_. The night was his friend, he drew it about himself like a cloak and used it to magnify the terror he could inspire in the enemy... but in the cold light of day, N'aethan knew that he looked somewhat less impressive. Certainly not very heroic, unfortunately, unlike Elder Brother – now _he_ had certainly looked the part!

N'aethan heard the ambush up ahead, the roar of flames followed by bestial, anguished cries, and sighed. That should be _him_ up there, but the young Aes Sedai had given her Shieldman his part in her plan (which was not a _bad_ plan, to be fair) so what could he do but obey? He watched as the surviving Trollocs, about half of the Fist perhaps, came running back through the scrub. Some of them were aflame and did not run far, certainly not as far as where he stood, awaiting them. This still left no few to be dealt with. He waved his arms a little to get their attention, worried that the Beastmen would not see him, since he was mostly swathed in fancloth. A hawk-faced Trolloc closed on him, cruel beak gaping, curved sword raised – it was fleeing a worse enemy, it no-doubt thought, and would despatch this lesser foe that blocked its path. More Beastmen, sporting a grotesque selection of tusks and horns, followed hard on its spurred heels, brandishing spiked axes and barbed spears.

N'aethan waited until they were almost upon him then, feeling bored, he drew his blade and began to kill them, still worrying about the Draghkar while he did so.

* * *

><p>The ambush went perfectly, Cohradin considered, even better than the time they had surprised those stinking Shaarad at Bent Spines waterhole... at least, until that accursed sand-storm had come along and ruined the Dance. As the column of Shadow-wrought came into sight, the Aes Sedai had stepped out from behind her tree, sweeping back the fancloth cloak she always wore, raising her slender arms. As she set the Neverborn aflame with her fires, she wore an expression of grim pleasure, Cohradin noted. The creature's dark horse had screamed, rearing, throwing off its burning rider before galloping away. The Shaido had then risen from cover to either side and taken the Fist in the flanks, first with their few remaining arrows, then moving in with spears, though the enemy were mostly in full retreat by this, as the Aes Sedai had not delayed overlong in turning her fiery attentions to the Trollocs. Without their Eyeless to inspire fear, the Shadow-twisted tended toward cowardice... so they ran.<p>

From the forest to the rear, where the surviving Trollocs were disappearing into the encroaching gloom of dusk, rough screams told Cohradin that the Aes Sedai's Warder, Naythan Shieldman, was making his presence known. Curious, Cohradin motioned for the others to remain with the Aes Sedai, then went forward to watch, favouring his right leg somewhat as he did so. He moved carefully from bush to bush, scanning the sky, but the Draghkar that had observed the brief skirmish seemed to be gone now... too bad that it had seen them at all, but it had been very high up, doubtless to avoid being struck from the sky by the Aes Sedai's fires, and he did not think it had observed much of interest to the enemy. A wounded, charred Trolloc was dragging itself along the ground just ahead of him... without pausing, Cohradin neatly broke its thick neck with his foot as he passed by.

Still limping a little, Cohradin emerged into a long clearing between the low trees. There were Trolloc corpses everywhere, scattered most thickly about where Naythan Shieldman stood, legs braced apart, his sword raised over his head. Three Shadow-twisted – the _last_ three, by the looks of it – were coming at him at once and Cohradin hefted his spear and prepared to join the dance. But before he could finish raising his veil, the Trollocs were all waked. The Aes Sedai's Warder withdrew his blade from between the ribs of the last as it lay kicking at his feet, and looked up at Cohradin's approach.

Naythan Shieldman had that strange fancloth _shoufa_ wrapped about his head and shoulders – and was veiled also! Well, that at least made up for _some_ of the dishonour incurred in him using the sword. Which he used very fast, very fast indeed – the blade had moved too swiftly for Cohradin to see, almost. Only his strange eyes showed, until he lowered the veil of fancloth and grinned. Cohradin lowered his own veil and grinned back.

"I see you, Naythan Shieldman, for all that you are very hard to see in all of that fancloth!"

"I see you back, Cohradin!" The Warder – if Warder he was – scowled, his pupils slitting for a moment. "It is dull, to kill the Beastmen, they are slow indeed..."

"Yes, I find a Shadowman more of a challenge..." Cohradin agreed absently, wondering about the eyes, but then turned his attention elsewhere, for the bushes to their right, down at the other end of the clearing, were shaking. A dozen Trollocs emerged, fleeing across the open space, though they paused when they saw that they were being watched, raising their crude weapons...

Naythan Shieldman observed them disparagingly, flicking the blood from his blade, then shouted in a harsh, guttural speech, saying something to them, then something else. The Shadow-twisted hesitated, glancing at each other uncertainly, at the many corpses of their brethren also. He shouted again, a longer phrase with a note of menace, this time, and took a step toward them. At which, the Trollocs resumed their flight, crashing through the bushes to the east. Naythan Shieldman watched them go, head cocked slightly to one side.

"What did you say to them, Naythan Shieldman?" Cohradin enquired. Old Sadora spoke the Shadow-tongue – the ancient Wise One of his Hold liked to question Trolloc prisoners personally, when they were taken in the Blight... the only time Cohradin almost felt sorry for Shadow-twisted! In fact, come to think of it, she would _also_ often use the Shadow-speech to angrily curse at those of her Sept who had inspired her ire... but no-one else at Wet Sands had ever taken the trouble to learn it.

"I told them that I did not like them. And that I did not wish to smell them." The Aes Sedai's strange Warder shrugged. "Not a very complicated language, the Shadow Tongue, at least not that which the Beastmen growl and grunt to each other... though the words of Dark Prophecy can be intricate enough, whilst vile – not that many Trollocs know how to read! Or would be let into Shadow Library, even if they did! Anyway, that is beside the point... for _then_ I told them that if I could still see them in five hand-counts, that I would grind their bones to make my bread!"

"Bones, Naythan Shieldman? Bread?"

"Yes. Do Beastmen, I mean Trollocs... do they still eat bread?"

"I have only ever seen them eat people, Naythan Shieldman. Or each other."

"Oh. Well, they used to eat bread, too... Trolloc-bread, all black and hard... made by Bakers-of-the-Shadow, doubtless! Tried some once, Middle Brother dared me to – _disgusting!_ Do not eat it if you see it, Cohradin!"

"I shall not, Naythan Shieldman," Cohradin promised solemnly, before squinting a little. "Do you not intend to pursue the Shadow-twisted? They appear to be getting away... I would chase after them myself, but I do not wish to run as my groin yet aches from where Jahdi dishonourably struck me in the-"

"_Chase?_ Of course, _like_ to chase things... fun! Just giving them a head-start. Only fair, so to do!" Naythan Shieldman turned his fancloth-swathed head toward where the Trollocs had disappeared, and made a soft, hissing sound under his breath.

Cohradin blinked his sole eye at the strange Warder. The fellow had an unusual attitude to the Dance, for all that he was good at it. _Very_ good at it... a little too good, in fact. He had heard that the Gaidin of the White Tower were very skilled with their dishonourable blades of course, he had always wished to meet one in battle... but Naythan Shieldman, the way he moved... his speed... Warders were still only human, were they not? Cohradin wondered – as he often had, of late – if that description quite applied to _this_ particular Warder...

"Alright, have counted fifty, now..." Naythan Shieldman glanced at Cohradin. "Please to take Aes Sedai back toward cliffs, Shaido, we should not stay here... I will catch up to you." He turned in the direction the Trollocs had fled, shouting; "ready or not, here come I!" and laughed his strange laugh as he trotted away in that direction, his pace becoming more rapid as he reached the tree-line. Much more rapid.

Cohradin watched as Naythan Shieldman blurred soundlessly into the trees, like some predator on the hunt... moving very fast... a bit _too_ fast, even... for a man. He frowned. Then, rubbing at his bruised ego, Cohradin limped back toward the others, glad that the _toh_-giving was over with. _Maidens!_ Of course, he could not ask the Aes Sedai to Heal the honourable injuries of _ji'e'toh_, and would not even if he could... no matter, he would be 'right as rain' as the wetlanders put it, in a few days.

But Cohradin could not help but wonder... the Aes Sedai were powerful indeed! Surely, if he asked her to, she could return his missing eye to him – the much-regretted eye that had been taken by the evil-natured and wrathful Great Bird of Shara! He had not _meant_ to step upon its egg, it had been an accident, an honest mistake! It would be fine indeed, to see with two eyes again... though Cohradin supposed that he would have to change his name... not just the 'one-eyed' bit either, but perhaps the 'cohra' part too? _That_ still rankled! There was a notable Chief of the Shaido who had led what was left of his Clan to a great victory during the famous Siege of Wet Sands Hold, back during the Trolloc Wars... a distant ancestor of Cohradin's, whose name was a little like his... perhaps he should call himself 'Sasaradin' in stead? _Then_ let the Maidens laugh!

But furthermore, Cohradin could not help but wonder... what exactly was it about Naythan Shieldman that so disturbed him? And also... why did he never seem to take off his _gloves?_

* * *

><p>After bathing with the Maidens in a small brook at the foot of the cliffs, Ellyth dried herself with her shawl, put on a fresh – well, <em>slightly<em> less grubby than the others – shift, wrapped Atual's fancloth cloak about herself, shivering, and went back to their new campsite, to find that the Shieldman had returned. Her silken dresses and shifts that were not reduced to rags hung beside some _cadin'sor_ to dry, on the rope that the red-headed Aielwoman had strung between two trees. There was no sign of any of the Aielmen.

Ellyth could hear the waves of the Aryth Ocean pounding against the seaward side of the cliff that towered over them, in the lee of which they had taken shelter. Her head was pounding equally, fit to burst. She supposed that it had been too soon to channel to that extent, at the limits of her strength, she had perhaps rather overdone the weaves of Fire... but the sight of the Shadowspawn had made her think of dear Atual, and she had become unaccustomedly angry. Well, she was paying the price for it now. Though oddly, despite the sensation of being stretched that still lingered from her previous exertions, when she had nearly burnt herself out, Ellyth felt that she might even have become slightly stronger in the Power as a result of her ordeal... _forcing_, Anaiya Sedai had always called it, when warning her not to do so... The flames she drew from the _saidar_ that filled her to a greater extent than that to which she was accustomed, had certainly seemed much hotter and brighter than was usually the case. It had been grimly satisfying, to personally obtain a measure of vengeance against a hated enemy, but her head would doubtless ache for days...

The Shieldman was engaged in an activity at which he had proved surprisingly adept... he glanced up at Ellyth, nodding politely, before returning to his sewing. He appeared to be mending a tear in one of his coats. Looking comfortable in his shirt-sleeves, sat cross-legged on the ground beside the fire, swiftly plying the needle... he rather resembled the industrious tailor-boy from the old children's story, one of her favourites as a girl, the tale of the plucky young fellow who embarks upon adventures with his friend, the talking mouse! Ellyth smiled. Best not to mention it to him, from certain comments he had made she gathered that he did not particularly care for mice.

The Shieldman had first revealed his unlikely skill the week before. Ellyth had become tired of constantly tripping on the overlarge Warder's cloak she wore, though had no intention of dispensing with it, of course. Apart from the necessity of remaining hidden from unfriendly eyes, dear Atual had wanted her to wear it, so she would. It needed adjusting, however, so when they stopped to camp for the night, Ellyth had reluctantly dug the needlework kit from the bottom of her belt-pouch, where it was accustomed to lie unused...

After watching Ellyth fumble with the needle and thread for a while, occasionally cursing under her breath, the Shieldman had risen wordlessly, and firmly appropriated sewing apparatus and cloak both, then sat back down and set to work... Ellyth had watched, sucking the finger which she had managed to stab twice, as the needle dipped and wove rapidly through the fabric, in a very professional way. In short order, the cloak was taken-in and, sweeping it over her shoulders, she had noted that it now fit a deal better, no longer trailing on the ground. He had since adjusted Atual's clothes also, accommodating them to his shorter, broader-chested frame.

"Beastmen all dead, Mistress," he reported, not looking up from his sewing.

"That is the very best condition for... beast-men, to be in, yes?"

The Shieldman nodded, then frowned, his pale brows drawing down a little. His hair seemed longer, she noticed, curling over the front of the strange band he wore. "Did you see Draghkar?" he asked, before biting off a length of thread.

"I did. The filthy creature circled overhead whilst we engaged the Shadowspawn. Regrettably, it flew too high for me to set it aflame, or otherwise destroy it, but I doubt it could see much of us from that distance." Ellyth frowned. "It seemed to be holding... well, I am not sure _what_ it was holding. I could see sunlight gleaming on something, in any case, something shiny..."

The Shieldman nodded glumly. "Saw it too, Mistress." He looked up, angry for a moment, before his features resumed their habitual placidity. "It was a trap," he growled, stabbing at the cloth viciously with the needle, "Shadow-wrought were sacrificed, sent to draw us out, obvious! Shieldman kicking himself! You and Shaido, Mistress, you have been seen..."

"Do not overly concern yourself, Naythan Gaidin, Draghkar are stupid creatures, it was surely too high above us to make out any details and it will not be able to report our current position, after all..."

Ellyth seated herself on a log to the other side of the fire and sighed, rubbing at her instep. Her slippers were falling apart, she supposed that she would have to go back to the riding boots again. It seemed they had traversed every inch of this accursed promontory that jutted out into the Aryth Ocean, often in a zigzag path to avoid the Trolloc Fists that were searching for them. She had done more walking in the last fortnight than... how she regretted Eradore! The Shieldman had offered to carry her a few times, but she had resolutely refused. It would make her look weak in the eyes of the Aiel, she considered, for they certainly did not seem to mind the walking any more than he did! Besides... Aes Sedai relied on their Warders for far too much, as it was, she considered... were they to start putting saddles on the poor men, in addition?

The Shieldman was shaking his head. His hair was definitely longer, growing at a rate that was frankly alarming – falling down almost past the band he wore about his brow, whisking from side to side with the movement. It seemed very fine and silky, more like fur than hair, in truth... perhaps he should grow it out in any case, to hide his unusual ears, she could style it for him as she had for Uncle Leol... Ellyth blinked. What was she thinking of? She would be offering to give him _ringlets_, next! The Aielwomen had enquired about her hair in a round-about fashion, whilst they were bathing together, had asked her about 'hot irons' which were certainly used by hairdressers, she had confirmed, but on hearing that in her case it was done via a weave of the One Power, they had looked shocked and made those odd signs to each other with their fingers.

"The Draghkar. What it held... it was a... I think you would say, a 'capturer' Mistress... a _ter'angreal_, that keeps images inside of it... wonder where it got it? You said that all of the old knowledge is lost, that people paint pictures now! With _paint!_" The Shieldman shook his head in wonder, then scowled again. Ellyth had become almost accustomed to the way his pupils alarmingly narrowed when he did so. "Methinks it is the ploy of that... _crone_, that the Trolloc screamed- I mean, spoke of... _Dreadlord..._" his nose wrinkled with disgust, his pointy teeth flashing as he growled, "...worse, even, than other kind of Friend of the Dark... she will look into the _ter'angreal_, when Draghkar returns it to her, she will see _you_, she will know how few we are..."

Ellyth shrugged. "Well; 'it is foolish to wail over milk spilt from the pail...' "

"True. Would like a drink of milk right now, Mistress... are there still cows?"

"Well, yes. Of course there are."

"Good to know, thought they might all have perished in the Breaking." He hesitated a moment, then enquired, somewhat casually, she thought, "there are... dogs, too?"

"Yes! Naturally! A great many dogs!" Ellyth raised her eyes skywards, exasperated. _Is he going to ask about _pigs_ next?_

"Huh. Shame. Well, as long as they do not come near to _me_..." The Shieldman gave the thread a deft twist, snapped off the end and discarded the coat, reaching for a shirt. He paused, glanced past her, smiling. Ellyth turned to look. The Maidens were walking past – _they_ had not yet troubled to clothe themselves, naturally! – and they smiled back at him, the red-head, Manda, raising a hand in greeting, before making more of those flickering gestures at each other. The two Aielwomen took their _cadin'sor_ from the rope and disappeared into the bushes, dressing unhurriedly as they did so. The Shieldman watched them go, an appreciative smile still curving his lips, before noting that he was being eyed coolly by his Aes Sedai... with a soft sigh, he returned his attention to his mending.

The shirt was torn in the same place as the coat, Ellyth noted, down along the side – no, not torn... sliced. And there were traces of dark, dried blood on the linen, as there was on the coat also, she realised. Ellyth frowned, a note of concern entering her voice. "Have you taken a wound, Naythan Gaidin?"

The Shieldman nodded, rubbing at his side, then winced. "It is nothing, Mistress, just the fighting earlier, made it open up again..."

"You are injured? Show me!" Ellyth rose, holding the fancloth cloak tightly about herself, since she wore only a shift beneath. Her dresses, which she had washed earlier, borrowing some soap from the big Aielman, all still looked rather damp. She could have dried them swiftly enough with a weave of Fire and Air (though it was bad for the silk) but had no great desire to channel, as this would surely worsen the throbbing pain in her skull... if Healing were required, however, then so be it.

The Shieldman was protesting. "Not serious, have had worse... _damn_ Shadowman cut me last night, not too deep, it will-"

"Last _night?_ A Myrddraal? With a _Thakan'dar_-forged blade, I would suppose?"

The Shieldman grinned that maddening grin. "Only kind they use, Mistress!"

"_Honestly!_ Why did you not tell me sooner? Remove your shirt immediately!" Ellyth moved to stand beside him, feathery brows drawing down angrily.

"But-"

"_Immediately!_" Ellyth snapped, tugging at his collar, "if you are to be my Warder for the time being, then it is my duty to tend to your hurts! I only hope that it is not too late..."

The Shieldman shrugged, though she could detect a hint of amusement – as burning usual! – in his reaction to her command. He unlaced his shirt awkwardly, removing it. On his broad chest, over his heart, that blue tattoo, an inverted, curlicued triangle, shimmering faintly in the low light... and there was one of those strange bandages stuck to his side, against his ribs, stained with dark blood. Muttering angrily under her breath, Ellyth knelt beside him, pushed his arm out of the way and pulled the dressing from his skin, occasioning further wincing on his part. The wound beneath had scabbed-over somewhat, but looked ugly, the pale skin around it inflamed. But to a much lesser extent than she would have anticipated, considering that it had been inflicted with a blade from the Dread Forge...

The Shieldman poked at the wound with a gloved finger, and hissed. "_K'jasic! _Filthy _Thakan'dar_ sword," he muttered, "always takes longer to heal. Stings, too!"

"Leave it alone! You are lucky to still be alive!" Ellyth pressed a hand to his forehead – he did not appear to have a fever, at least – then peeled the rest of the dressing off carefully, provoking more hissing and a certain amount of low-pitched grumbling from her patient.

"No point, Mistress, should just leave to mend on its own," he protested.

"If it is not Healed, you will almost certainly die, yes?" Ellyth snapped.

The Shieldman blinked at her, in that slow way of his. "But you cannot-"

"Oh, be quiet!" And without awaiting a request for Healing, Ellyth shook her head impatiently and embraced the Source, preparing weaves of Spirit, Water and Air combined, the pain in her aching head intensifying in response. The Shieldman's eyes widened a little – it was almost as though he could _see_ the weaves forming, though of course he could not – and raised a hand in objection.

"Mistress, that will not-"

"Hush! And hold still…" Ellyth placed a firm hand on each of his rather silky temples. She channelled. And watched, dumbfounded, as her weaves… _unravelled_. Seeming to fall apart and dissipate, the moment they touched him. The Shieldman observed her surprise, dark eyes wide... a small smile on his lips.

"What was that? What just happened?" Ellyth realised that her face was rather close to his, that she was still gripping the Shieldman firmly about the brow and withdrew her hands hastily, rising and taking a step back. Her cloak had fallen open in the course of the abortive Healing and the Shieldman eyed her bare legs with some approval, pursing his lips a little and replying in rather absent tones, she thought. Ellyth coloured, and pulled the fancloth closer about her. No doubt he would be equally approving – if not more so! – were she to parade herself about nude, as the Maidens did... he certainly seemed to approve of _them_ doing so! _Men! _No... _Shieldmen! _

"Your Healing is wasted on me, Mistress," the Shieldman was explaining, "the Power webs will not... adhere? Right word, yes? It was part of Father's Design." He grinned, alarmingly. "Kiam Sedai used to joke that I was part-_Gholam!_ Well, _think_ it was supposed to be a joke... hard to tell with her... with you also, Mistress!" The Shieldman shrugged, glanced down at the wound, before awkwardly attempting to replace the dressing. Ellyth shook her head, knelt beside him again.

"Here, let me do that for you…" The Shieldman lifted a muscular arm out of the way whilst Ellyth pressed the strange bandage back into place. "What is a _gowlam?_" she enquired, as she did so. Though what she really wanted to ask was, 'what are _you?_' She was still uncertain, especially in light of this most recent development – he stood immune to channelling, seemingly! It could not have been his Shield-_ter'angreal_ disrupting the flows, since this device was still attached to his coat, folded neatly beside him. It must be _him!_ She had never heard of anything like it. It was a rather... _worrying_ development.

"_Gholam_. A rare kind of Shadow-wrought, Mistress, and not something you would ever wish to meet." N'aethan lowered his arm and turned slightly, looking up at her as she rose. "Hope the _Gholamin_ all long-since destroyed..." he shrugged back into his shirt before resuming his mending, "...leastways, know of one that is."

"How do you know?"

"I destroyed it."

"Oh..."

Ellyth considered this as she returned to her log, gazing into the flickering flames of the small camp fire somewhat gloomily. The fierce throbbing in her head had worsened as a result of her futile efforts at Healing... Ellyth sighed, stared glumly down at her sore feet. Sat perched on a log in a clearing, as she had so often seemed to do since leaving Tar Valon the last time… for what would probably prove to be the very last time. She would not be the first young and foolish Aes Sedai to go with her Gaidin to some dark and forbidding part of the world, and simply never return. She doubted that she would be missed by many, in the Tower... Shrina and Renn of course, Anaiya, a few other Blues and some Greens perhaps… no-one else, certainly... Ellyth did not particularly care about that, but it would have been nice to leave some sort of a legacy, or to have others know that she had at least died whilst trying to… oh, for the Light's sake, this was all getting rather maudlin! She winced at a particularly sharp stab of pain and raised long fingers to her temples, rubbing ineffectually.

"You have head-ache, Mistress?" the Shieldman enquired, as he plied the needle along the rent in his shirt.

"_Yes_, a rather bad one as a matter of fact, so perhaps-"

A blur of movement in the corner of her eye – Ellyth jumped as something touched the back of her neck and turned her head, eyes wide! The Shieldman was looking at her, that half-smile on his lips. How had he got over here so fast? He had been several spans away, now he was crouched right behind her! _And_ had his fingertips resting lightly on her nape! She felt rather like a chicken in the jaws of a fox...

"What are you doing?" Ellyth demanded, wincing at a fresh stab of pain. He just smiled a little wider, touched a finger to her jaw and pushed gently but firmly so that she was facing forward again. She was too surprised to object. It was _just_ like the way a self-important hair-dresser would behave, whilst he primped your coiffure for a ball!

"Used to do this for Mother, when _her_ head hurt," the Shieldman explained. Then, broad, powerful fingertips began to knead at the base of her skull, down the centre of her neck, just behind her ears… and the pain seemed to flow away… after a while, Ellyth abruptly came to her senses to realise that the head-ache had faded and for the first time in weeks, she did not feel like a coiled-up spring. They were all still going to die, no-doubt, but… well, at least the pain was gone. That was something, at least.

It felt wonderful… but it was not fitting to let your Warder massage your neck... well, unless you were a _Green_... though he was _not_ her Warder, in the strictest sense, so she would allow the familiarity, for a while longer... a little while longer...

"You used to massage your mother's neck?" Ellyth commented, absently. "Well, that was very good of you... though I believe you said that you did not _have_ a-"

"Oh no, Mistress, _the_ Mother, meant I!"

"The Mother? You mean, the Amyrlin?"

"_Tamyrlin_," the Shieldman corrected. A confiding note entered the husky voice speaking quietly over her shoulder, whilst those fingertips kneaded away skilfully. "Kiam Sedai used to say that I thought _Shadar Nor_ was my 'mummy' because she knew that it annoyed me! She did not like Latra Sedai... thought the Taint, the Dark One's back-lash, believed it to be _her_ fault, _Shadar Nor's_ blame for the Fateful Concord... Kiam and some other young 'prentices wished to go with the Dragon and his Companions on _that _day, but were not permitted – shielded and tied-up with the One Power by Vora Aes Sedai and the rest of the War Ajah!" She heard him whistle softly. "Day of The Strike... quite a day!"

"It certainly _sounds_ like quite a day..." The Strike on _Shayol Ghul_, she presumed, though Ellyth was not entirely certain of what _else_ he was talking about... she was sure that Renn would know... though given the opportunity, doubtless her Brown Ajah friend would be too busy _asking_ questions to answer any! Ellyth shuddered at the thought that if they ever did manage to escape this accursed place and return to the White Tower, Renn would no doubt immediately begin babbling the Old Tongue at the Shieldman, seize him by the ear and drag him into her study (if she could still get the burning door open by then) never to return.

"Better now?" the Shieldman enquired, ceasing his ministering touch.

Suddenly, Ellyth realised that the fingers massaging her neck had been _bare_, not clad in the strange, shimmering material his gauntlets were made of. She glanced over her shoulder, in time to see him pulling his other glove back on.

"Yes, much better... thank-you..." The Shieldman nodded, smiled, returned to his discarded needle and thread. Ellyth watched him, speculatively. "You are a man of unexpected talents, Naythan," she murmured, "needlework, massage... can you cook?"

"Sort of... sometimes..."

"I am sure that you are just being modest, yes? Why, with a little house-training, I suspect that you might make for a fine husband!"

The Shieldman snorted, amused. "Please do not tell Maidens, Mistress – we need all the help we can get against Shadow-wrought, do not wish for them to break their spears and make me a wreath!"

The Shieldman had spent a deal of time with the Aiel, learning about their customs, whereas Ellyth had not, so of course, she had absolutely no idea what he meant by this. Though the youth spying from the bushes certainly did...

* * *

><p>Tevin had watched, eyes wide, whilst the Warder who was not a Warder massaged the Aes Sedai with his bare hands – so <em>that<em> was what Naythan Shieldman kept under his gloves! He had _thought_ so! Not that he _was_ 'Naythan Shieldman' of course... Tevin stole away stealthily, considering this revelatory confirmation of his suspicions... and then went to join the others, feeling pleased with himself.

The Shaido all knew what they had gathered in this secluded place to discuss, but none wished to be the first to say it. The ring of pale stones where they squatted on their heels in a circle was some way removed from the camp-site, and the sound of the vast pool of water named 'ocean' crashing against the rocks was nearer now. They did their best to ignore this reminder, for the sight of those endless seas stretching out into the distance was distinctly unnerving to them... as was something else, for that matter...

"There is something _strange_ about Naythan Shieldman," Cohradin eventually muttered, not looking at the others.

"His eyes?" wondered Chassin, though they all knew it was not just that.

"He has pretty eyes," declared Manda. Jahdi eyed her flatly – she flushed.

"I do not know," said Cohradin, with a shrug, "perhaps there are other wetlanders who have such eyes?" They all looked at Gerom, who shook his large head.

"I have not heard or read of it if there are."

Tevin appeared, slipping noiselessly from the bushes, and squatted down beside the others. _He_ had not been invited to participate in this discussion, he noted!

Cohradin signed to him.

_what are the Aes Sedai and her Warder doing?_

Tevin signed back.

_she tried to heal him of a wound and then he squeezed her neck _

There was no sign in _Sovin Nai_ hand-talk for 'massage.' Tevin shrugged.

_now he is mending his garments again..._

Cohradin considered this, before speaking further. "He moves... _very_ fast. They say that the Gaidin are not as ordinary men, but even so..." Cohradin scowled "...the Shadow-twisted fear us, which is well, but Naythan Shieldman... they flee in terror from him! He tells them that he will make bread from their bones, and they run like scared goats!"

The other Shaido pondered this information.

"I would not like to eat such bread," muttered Chassin, after a while.

"Nor I," agreed Gerom. The Maidens eyed each other uncertainly, whilst young Tevin shifted impatiently, as though he had something to say. Which he did, of course. Not that the others would listen to him, just like they had scoffed at him when he said they should all go to Tear to seek for He Who Comes With the Dawn!

"He _warned_ me not to eat it, in fact! Perhaps it was a jest – he has an odd sense of humour, this Naythan Shieldman..." Cohradin shook his head. "But that is beside the point! He is not as ordinary men, even for a Warder – if he _is_ a Warder! – and I fear that..."

Cohradin trailed-off, but Gerom and Chassin at least knew what he was thinking. The older _Sovin Nai_ had been to the Blight with him on a few occasions, though had not particularly wished to go, and they had seen some of the things that lived there... things that moved very fast... things that were not human...

Tevin frowned impatiently. _Of course_ Naythan Shieldman was no ordinary man – he was a Hero! A Hero of the Light! Did the others expect him to be as _they?_

"He is a good fellow, for a wetlander... if he _is_ a wetlander... but there is something unnatural about him, even so... I fear that he is not what he seems, that he may even be a creature of the Shadow..." Cohradin shook his head sadly. He quite liked Naythan Shieldman, and did not wish to have to wake him, but...

Tevin had only been listening with half an ear, since _he_ already knew exactly who Naythan Shieldman was, the others were too stupid to have realised, but to him it was obvious. If somewhat surprising, even disquieting, when you considered it...

But at this, he could restrain himself no longer and spoke up, his elders glaring at him for his presumption.

"Naythan Shieldman is no servant of Sightblinder, Cohradin – he serves the Light!" declared Tevin, sounding scandalised. "Of course he does!"

"And how do you know this, young-one?" demanded Cohradin.

"Because of who he is!"

The other Shaido stared at Tevin with disapproval.

"And who is he, then?" enquired Cohradin, coldly.

"You will not believe me if I tell you," grumbled Tevin, "you will just laugh at me, as you always do..."

"We will not laugh at you if you keep respectfully silent whilst those with older and wiser heads discuss-"

"But I know!" exclaimed the young Knife Hand, interrupting the scowling Leader of his Society at Wet Sands, "_you_ do not know, none of you, but I _do!_ I _know_ who Naythan Shieldman is!" And he solemnly raised a finger, drawing an inverted triangle in the air.

Tevin proved to be perfectly correct. He did know who Naythan Shieldman was. And they did laugh at him.

* * *

><p>N'aethan was returning from his nightly diversions, padding soundlessly through the scrub, still quietly enjoying the confused look on the face of the lone Myrddraal scout when he kicked it off its horse and cut it in half, when his nose and ears abruptly told him that he was not alone. He paused.<p>

"Yes, Shaido?" he enquired. The Shaido rose soundlessly from the bushes all around. They looked... serious. _Especially_ Cohradin. Which was unusual, for him...

"I see you, Naythan Shieldman," said the one-eyed Shaido in his clear, oddly accented voice. "How did you know we were here?"

"Heard you breathing. You Shaidos breathe too loud!"

"We do not!" snapped Jahdi.

"I think that you are not as other men-" Cohradin began to say.

"Least I have man's _name_, Cohra-dancer!"

Cohradin scowled. "You are _not_ as other men, Naythan Shieldman," he continued, relentlessly.

"I am Gaidin!" argued N'aethan. "We are no ordinary men! Serve Aes Sedai. Special, are we!" He grinned. He had been expecting something like this since last night, when he had noticed that the Shaido youth – who was lingering behind the others, looking uncertain of himself – was spying on him from the bushes whilst he massaged his Aes Sedai. _Sneaky Shaido!_

"No, it is more than that," mused Cohradin. He stepped soundlessly out of the bush from which he had arisen, approaching N'aethan with dangerous grace, the other Shaido mirroring his movements so that they surrounded him on all sides. "There is something very different about you, even when compared with other wetlanders... compared with other Warders, also..."

N'aethan shrugged, noting that the Shaido were not wearing their veils or holding their spears at least, for all that it seemed there was about to be some sort of a confrontation... he tensed his muscles, feeling the blood begin to pound in his chest...

Cohradin smiled slightly, though continued to look uncharacteristically serious. "Tell me, Naythan Shieldman, if that is your true name-"

"It _is!_" N'aethan insisted, truculently, "well, in a manner of speaking... _vulgar_ speaking... given to me by Vora Aes Sedai, was my title!"

"Tell me... why do you never take off your gloves?"

N'aethan grinned. "Suffer from cold fingers, do I!"

"Bah! You prevaricate, Naythan Shieldman..." Cohradin's cold blue eye narrowed alarmingly. "Show to us your hands, Brother of Battles!"

N'aethan grinned wider, shaking his head, his pupils expanding to almost eclipse each oddly-hued iris, "no, the truth is, after had been out _drinking _in Paaran Disen one night, woke up in alley next morning to discover hands covered in rude tattoos of _cohra_-dancing Courtesans... funny, do not remember visiting living-tattoo parlour, certainly... whole evening rather hazy, although..." N'aethan shrugged. "Swore oath to always wear gloves did I, for am greatly ashamed of myself!"

"More falsehoods! Remove your gauntlets, Naythan Shieldman!"

Instead, N'aethan doffed his fancloth poncho and unbuckled his sword-belt, letting the sheathed blade drop to the ground. He raised his fists and went up onto his toes a little... "You want gloves, Shaido? Come and take them!"

"Get him!"

Several extremely fast and – in a restrained way – violent things proceeded to happen from the point the Shaido leapt upon N'aethan, and by the time it was over, his assailants were all rather bruised and scraped and in two cases, comatose... and his clothing was ripped a bit. _More_ sewing to have to do... but even so, it had been fun! These Third Age _Da'shain_ certainly made for good sparring partners... why, he was almost out-of-breath!

N'aethan leant over Cohradin, who was lying on his back, looking rather dusty and bruised, not to mention dazed. "If I help you up, Shaido, you should not try to hit me again – will bounce you off tree, if you do!"

Cohradin's eye focused a little, then widened. He pointed. "See! Foolish young Tevin was actually _right_... it _is_ him!" Those Shaido who were not unconscious crawled over to stare. N'aethan blinked, and looked down. There were some buttons missing from his coat, which hung over one shoulder in disarray and the linen shirt beneath was torn open. His Light-mark was clearly visible, shimmering metallically in the dawning sun.

Cohradin sounded... _amazed_. "The sign of the Nightwatcher!"

So did Manda. "He is _Vron'cor!_" She raised a finger, traced an inverted triangle in the air. After some hesitation, the others did so too. "_Vron'cor!_"

N'aethan stared at them, then grinned delightedly.

"You _remember_ me!"

A time later, N'aethan was no longer grinning. Manda was leaning against his shoulder, limping, as he had put a rather nasty bruise on her leg when she tried to kick him in the face, and Tevin was still out-cold from the pressure-hold, slung over Gerom's shoulder, as they made their slow way back to the camp. Chassin was walking slower than the others, looking stunned, occasionally bumping into trees. Jahdi lay cradled in Cohradin's arms, yet unconscious from the hand-blow. He had tried not to hurt the Maidens too much, which was a little old-fashioned of him he supposed, but then, they had proved to be his most vicious assailants!

But N'aethan had his mind on other things. He was feeling rather confused, in fact... "What do you _mean_, you did not believe that I _existed?_" he demanded.

Manda shrugged. She did not seem to hold the bruises against him any more than the other Shaido did – in fact, they had all apologised, for attacking him.

"We thought the stories of you were just that, _Vron'cor_ – stories."

"Stories?" N'aethan blinked. The _Da'shain_ had called him 'Nightwatcher' and there had been that business with the _Aiel_-children over the little-covenant, but he had never heard that there were _stories_ about him... apart from that first tale, that _he_ had made up, of course... Stories! Well, that wasn't bad! Fame at last. A pity that these _Aiel_... these Shaido, did not seem to sing anymore, there might even have been _songs_ about him. Though probably not. He was not a seed, after all!

At which point, his pleasant musing was rather rudely interrupted...

Cohradin nodded sagely. "Yes, _Vron'cor_, there are many stories, such as the tale of how you bested the evil Snake Monster in a game of wits." The other Shaido also nodded sagely.

"Snake... monster..?"

"_And_ the story of when you stole the magical fruit from the gardens of the Fire Giants, _Vron'cor_," Manda added.

"Fruit?"

"There are many stories of your exploits, _Vron'cor_," Gerom rumbled, "the tale of how you rescued the unhappy _Aiel_-children from the Finn-folk (whose favourite beverage was their tears) is a particularly fine one."

N'aethan blinked. He did not recall doing _that_ either!

"And that is all we thought they were," Cohradin exclaimed enthusiastically, "mere _stories_ that our parents told to us, and yet, here you are! This explains everything! No wonder the Aes Sedai sought for you, who better to uphold the honour of the White Tower in the Final Dance with Sightblinder than _Vron'cor!_"

The other Shaido murmured agreement and even rattled their spears against their bucklers a bit.

N'aethan frowned. "Well, that is fair enough, I suppose, would be happy to bear honour of White Tower at _Tarmon Gai'don_, carry banner even, if Aes Sedai tell me to, but..." he paused, and blinked his large eyes. "Hold a moment – did you say 'parents?' "

"Yes, _Vron'cor_."

"I am to take it that these tales of my exploits are... _children's stories?_"

"But of course, _Vron'cor!_ Why, _all_ Aiel children know the tales of the Nightwatcher, told to them at their bedside – of how first you tricked Tashandra, Queen of the Cat-demons, and took her eyes, so that you could watch the dark night in case of monsters and keep good Aiel children who behaved honourably safe from harm, and also how-"

N'aethan waved a gloved hand in the air, looking confused. "But... well yes, I did that of course, sort of, but... I mean... are there not any stories about... well, like when I killed the _Gholam?_ There must be a story about _that?_"

"What is a go-lam, _Vron'cor?_"

"It is a lot nastier than a bloody cat-demon, let me tell you! Or... what about when I fought with Goaeur? _That_ was an epic battle... it lasted all day..." The Shaido were shaking their heads apologetically... N'aethan frowned. "Goaeur Rantoel the _Companion_," he elaborated, "insane, no nose, liked to set things aflame; cities, mountains, _rivers_ even, all set on fire just by staring at – me included! Well, air _around_ me, much same effect, _ou'ch!_ – you have not heard of Goaeur? No..?"

"I have not heard tell of this man, _Vron'cor_, but there _is_ the tale of your fight with the _King_ of the Cat-demons, and how you made him give up his sharp, black-"

"But _that_ is just a story I told to some _Aiel_-children, a long time ago!"

Cohradin nodded. "We know, _Vron'cor_."

"You mean, you Aiel have been telling it ever since?"

"There have always been tales of the Nightwatcher," muttered Chassin, thickly.

"For as long as anyone can remember," agreed Gerom.

"But... ever since the _Breaking?_" N'aethan's mouth snapped shut. "Oh."

Cohradin grinned triumphantly. "You said the Aes Sedai came to wake you up! Tell me, _Vron'cor_; how _long_ was it that you slept, beneath the Hill of Milk?"

"Um..."

"I will tell you – since the Age of Legends itself!"

N'aethan sighed. Well, it looked like the cat-demon was out of the bag! But... snake monsters? Giants? Magic fruit? So much for fame!

_This is all very strange..._

* * *

><p>Cohradin grinned as the Nightwatcher's frown confirmed it. "The Age of Legends!" he repeated, in wondering tones.<p>

"Aes Sedai told me not to speak of it," grumbled _Vron'cor_, who had been pretending to be Naythan Shieldman the Warder. "And was _not_ since Age of Legends, was not even born then, born in the Light on first day of War, was I, day that Ishamael used Balefire to... yes, well, have only been asleep since Breaking." He eyed the Shaido soberly. "A lot has changed, believe me." Then, he grinned, the alarming, pointy-toothed grin of _Vron'cor_, Hero of the Light and creature of myth! "Ho! Just realised – there are not many who can say they have slept through the Breaking of the World!"

"And now you are arisen again, _Vron'cor!_" declared Cohradin, excitedly.

"It is said that the Heroes of the last Age will awake in time for _Tarmon Gai'don_," Gerom speculated, "that they will be awoken by the pipes-of-battle that summon we Aiel to the Final Dance."

"Aye, that or a big golden horn," _Vron'cor_ muttered, before glaring at them. "Listen, Shaidos, do _not _tell Aes Sedai that I spoke to you of this... serious, am I! _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ was not supposed to tell how _long_ he slept!"

Cohradin nodded. "Even _Vron'cor_ fears the wrath of the Aes Sedai."

"_Yes he does_ – fears the _nag_ of the Aes Sedai too, so please to keep big mouth shut, Cohradin, or _Vron'cor_ may be tempted to put fist in it!"

"We will not tell to the Aes Sedai what you have revealed of your enchanted sleep, _Vron'cor_," Cohradin promised, faithfully. The other Shaido nodded, solemnly.

"Was _not_ enchanted sleep – am I _Faery-Tale_ _Princess?_ Not! Aes Sedai did not awake me with _kiss_, I so assure you! It was... 'Box-that-stops-Time' I think you would say..."

Cohradin scowled, not listening. "And this enchanted sleep of yours, this is why you were not there to protect my kin the night the Shadowrunners slew them... it shames me to admit it, _Vron'cor_, but after that terrible night, I ceased to believe that you were real..."

"Well... I _am!_" _Vron'cor_ looked abashed. "Sorry about your kin, that I was not there, although... but do not blame me, Father's idea, the sleeping, not mine..."

Cohradin became even more excited at this. "The Father of Creation! He who formed you from clay and breathed life into you!"

_Vron'cor_ shook his head impatiently. "_Sin'aethan Shad-_ I mean, _Vron'cor_, _not_ made of clay! Do I _look_ like I am made out of clay? Am I a _cup? Bowl?_ Not! Foolish _Da'shain!_ And _was not_ Divine Creator, _Father_ – Aes Sedai who constructed me, was he! It is complicated... do not entirely understand it all myself..."

"But of course it is complicated, being _Vron'cor!_" Cohradin enthused, "you are not as other men... you are a Hero of Legend! The stories of your exploits give you powers beyond those of mere mortals!"

Chassin nodded, his voice still sounding a bit slurred. "You are fast, _Vron'cor_ – _and_ strong. You threw Gerom into a bush!"

"A _thorn_ bush," muttered Gerom, ruefully but without rancour, plucking the latest in a succession of vicious thorns from his flesh.

_Vron'cor_ shrugged, muttering; "sorry, big Shaido, if there had been pile of soft cushions, would have thrown you at _that_ in stead..."

The Shaido found this a quite amusing image, even Gerom, who had a generous nature and was always prepared to laugh at himself.

"Soft cushions!" Cohradin wiped the tears from his eye, concluding; "aye, your strange powers, described in all of your stories! That is why when we ceased to be children, we no longer believed that you existed!"

"_I exist!_ Here I am! _See?_" _Vron'cor_ seemed nonplussed by all of this.

Jahdi was stirring and mumbling, while Tevin had regained consciousness by this point. "_I_ always believed in you, _Vron'cor!_" he exclaimed, loyally and a little ingratiatingly, raising his head from where it had been bumping against Gerom's back. "Why, it was I who told the others who you were! They foolishly thought you a monster, perhaps a creature of the Blight in human guise, or a demon wearing the skin of a man that it had eaten!" – the others glared at Tevin, they had not wanted _Vron'cor_ to know about _that_ – "but I explained to them that you were a Hero of the Light – that _you_ were the Nightwatcher!"

_Vron'cor_ scowled at Tevin a moment, the pupils of his eyes (which watched over the night and kept good and well-behaved Aiel children safe from monsters) going a bit narrow. "Thank-you," he growled, in his odd throaty voice.

* * *

><p>N'aethan sighed. So the Shaido knew about the Nightwatcher – or <em>thought<em> they did. It was not exactly fame, but it was better than nothing, he supposed. They were back at the camp now. His Aes Sedai had not been as angry with him for beating-up some _Da'shain_ as he had expected she would be, but had not been best pleased about having to Heal them all, either. The Shaido had not wanted her to, but she did it anyway. She had gone stalking off into the trees afterwards, muttering about finding something to eat that was not a bloody _hare_ for a change...

There were no Shadowmen or Draghkar about, his Shield was informing him, but even so, he had best go off after her to ensure that she was alright... maybe she would require another massage after all of that Healing? A little forward of him to do that, perhaps, but her head must have been hurting badly... when he squinted at her, her aura still had that red tinge that let him know she had over-channelled recently... hadn't anyone taught her not to do that? Did the Aes Sedai not have Instructors now? It was not his place to point such things out to her, as though she were still just an Initiate and the one time he had tried, she had angrily snapped something about 'no longer wearing white' and having 'won the shawl' whatever _that_ meant... it was yet hard to believe that she was a Servant of All!

But that was beside the point, because the Shaido were _still_ all gazing at him in wonderment... _and_ insisting on calling him '_Vron'cor_' all of the damned time!

"Well, it is good to know that you Shaido Aiel have kept the little-covenant, even if you broke the big one," N'aethan conceded, still wondering about the snake monster – was _that_ the gholam? – but then added, reasonably, "though I suppose the Aes Sedai ordered you to, after all... it is well that the _Da'shain Aiel_, that the Shaido, that is, still serve the Aes Sedai, after all this time..."

The Shaido eyed each other, shuffled their feet. They seemed embarrassed.

"Once, perhaps, _Vron'cor_... but we do not serve them _now_," Manda explained.

"Oh... you do not?"

"No, they sent us away when they no longer required our service... we came here seeking for He Who Comes with the Dawn..."

"Not him again! Perhaps _he_ is the Dragon? The Mistress said that he looked a bit like a Shaido... I mean, like an Aiel..."

"Bah!" bahed Cohradin, "the youth, up in the sky? I saw the fellow too – it could not be he. The Chief of Chiefs would _never_ use a dishonourable blade!"

"Would he not? Well, fair enough, I would suppose..."

Cohradin scratched thoughtfully at his largest scar. "It is said that we obeyed the Aes Sedai in the Age of Legends, but that we failed them and were sent to the Three-fold Land in punishment. Doubtless we were mighty warriors in their service, who danced the spears against the Shadow in the War of the One Power." Cohradin's eye narrowed; "tell me, _Vron'cor_, do you know of the hidden name we Aiel bear, unknown to wetlanders?"

"You are..." N'aethan considered a moment "...a Child of the Dragon."

"That is... almost it! Truly, you _are_ the Nightwatcher, to know of this!"

Gerom had been rubbing his upper lip thoughtfully, now he leant forward, enquiring, "forgive me, _Vron'cor_, but perhaps you can tell us how it is that we failed the Aes Sedai? Or was it the Dragon himself, Lews Therin Telamon, whom we failed? It is something the Wise Ones and Clan Chiefs know of, but they will not speak of it. I have often wondered. You mentioned a... covenant?"

"Yes," agreed Cohradin, "if we know _how_ we failed, we can give the appropriate amount of _toh_ for it!"

N'aethan blinked. "You... do not remember, what the Covenant was?"

Gerom shook his head. "We do not, _Vron'cor_. It is said that much knowledge was lost during our years of wandering, before we came to the Three-fold Land, our desert home."

N'aethan blinked further. This complicated things. He did not think that the Shaido would react very well to the news about the Leaf Way. Some still followed it, the Aes Sedai had told him, but the Shaido called them 'Lost Ones' and did not seem to like them very much. Clearly, he was going to have to make something up. _Again_. He remembered the first time he had to make something up... that row of solemn little faces, eyes wide at the sight of his weapons... all that hastily-improvised nonsense about cat-demons! He had had the best of intentions... but _this_ was where telling fibs to children led you, he supposed! Though his powers of invention were somewhat limited, particularly when put on the spot like this... what could he tell them..? The Shaido were watching him closely.

"This covenant – does it have something to do with _swords?_" Cohradin demanded, suspiciously.

"Um... _yes!_"

"I thought so! How, then, did we fail the Aes Sedai, _Vron'cor?_"

"How failed? Well, I do not know that much about it as I am only a Shieldman, I mean, a Nightwatcher, the Aes Sedai do not tell me everything... but I believe that... that the _Da'shain Aiel_ were _not_ permitted to use swords, in battle... the Dragon said so... but... some of them disobeyed their Aes Sedai and used... dishonourable swords, in battle, even though it was forbidden... and..." N'aethan trailed-off. _Pathetic!_ There was no way they were going to believe tha-

"And the Dragon and the other Aes Sedai became angry at this loss of _ji_, and banished us all to the Three-fold Land to atone for it!" shouted Cohradin, exuberantly.

"I am afraid so. It is a very sad story." N'aethan felt mildly guilty, but was still annoyed about the magical fruit and the other silly things, so not _too_ guilty. _Typical!_ He had killed a _Gholam_, taking terrible injuries in so doing, _and_ two Companions, but no-one bloody-well remembered about _that_, it would seem!

"It all makes perfect sense!" Cohradin scowled. "I wonder who it was, who used the swords? I expect they were Shaarad..."

"Or Taardad," muttered Chassin.

"Oh yes..." said N'aethan faintly, "...them." The big Shaido, Gerom, was frowning at him thoughtfully, he noted.

"Well," concluded Cohradin, "this reveals much... and shows to us who you truly _are_, Nightwatcher! Why, it is the first good news that we have had in some time, let me tell you!" The other Shaido nodded and muttered approvingly.

"We may not have found He Who Comes With the Dawn... but we have found _you_ in stead, _Vron'cor_... and _I_ say that is _almost_ as good!"

* * *

><p>Tevin brought the unwelcome news later that day, though the Maidens of the Spear sneered and went to look for themselves, returning only to reluctantly confirm what he had observed.<p>

"The Shadow-wrought are coming!"

"How many?"

"_All_ of them!"

Reportedly, there were a good twenty Fists of Trollocs on their way, spread out in a long line, undulating over hills and down dales, sweeping the terrain in an inexorable passage toward the Ocean, numerous Draghkar flocking overhead, their large eyes scanning the ground below carefully... it seemed that the game was up.

Strangely, Ellyth felt almost _relief_ at the news. "Well, that is that, then," she observed, "there is no escape this time... we might as well stay where we are and await them, sell our lives as dearly as we may, yes?" The Shaido looked thoughtful.

"No!" snapped the Shieldman, who seemed to make a point of beginning his sentences with a negative whenever she ended one of hers with a positive. "Mistress," he added, belatedly, before pointing a gloved finger north, further along the cliffs. "There is a place, not far from here, a place of safety, I think."

Ellyth scowled. "Safety? Why did you not mention this earlier?"

"Did not even know if was still there 'til last night, and Mistress was sleeping when returned from scout!" The Shieldman's eyes were wide and blameless. "_Expected_ something like this, after we saw Draghkar with capturer, so went to look, did I! And after all this time, it _is_ still there... telling you of it now, am I not?" Ellyth's dark, liquid gaze held his for a long moment... he smiled, and bowed to her formally, a hand over his Shield-_ter'angreal_, the other on his sword hilt. "Honour to Serve, Aes Sedai," he added, softly.

Ellyth flushed. The memory of his touch, massaging away her pain, was still with her... it had been a rather... sensual experience. It had awoken in her feelings, yearnings even, that she had not had since she was a novice! Well, not _that_ often, at least. And embarrassingly enough, a rather torrid dream, later on that night, in which... no, she did not wish to think on _that!_ It had involved more than just a massage... Curse it, she did not need the added complications that a man inevitably brought to any situation, she must focus on her Cause. Though... Naythan rather _was_ her Cause, was he not?

Ellyth frowned. "Well... ah, no matter! Let us go and view this place of presumed safety, then... what manner of place is it, Naythan Gaidin? Another heartstone... well, whatever that underground chamber was, where I found..." she glanced at the Aiel cautiously, but they did not seem to be attending "...that is to say, where we met."

"No Mistress, not _Collam_." Naythan smiled, a strange, sad smile. "_Moridin_."

* * *

><p><strong>Part II: <strong>_**Moridin**_

"No!" Cohradin shouted, "absolutely not! The _Sovin Nai_ shall stand here and dance to their honourable deaths with the Twisted-ones, rather!" The other Knife Hands nodded in agreement, more or less unanimously... though the Maidens of the Spear did not, for they were otherwise occupied with gazing rather glassily out at the endless, rolling waves of the Aryth Ocean... though _all_ of the Shaido looked a bit green about the gills, N'aethan considered. Best not to mention gills to them, though, or anything else to do with aquatica or the sea... the closer they had approached to the ocean, the more nervous the Shaido had seemed to become... he had not thought these former _Da'shain_ even _had_ nerves!

"But it is not that far," N'aethan pointed-out. "You are _sure_ that you do not know how to swim?" His brow was furrowed – the Shaido's reaction to the hundred spans of deep salt-water that lay between them and a safe refuge was puzzling indeed!

"_Swim?_ Of course not! We are _algai'd'siswai_, not... _fishes!_"

N'aethan thought about it for a while. "What is wrong, Cohradin, do you fear to get wet?" He did not particularly like getting wet either, but it was preferable to a Shadowman taking his head or, worse, killing his Aes Sedai. _Taking his_... he grinned, recalling his first battle, Middle Brother's whispery voice, his hollow, echoing laughter...

Cohradin was spluttering. The big scar on his face had gone crimson. "There is but a single thing that one-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ fears, and it is _not _water!"

"Oh... what thing is it, then, that you fear?" N'aethan was genuinely curious. Well, he had a curious nature, after all. Kiam Sedai had often warned him that his curiosity might get him killed... but that was just her, being sarcastic.

"It is a _secret_ – Gerom and Chassin know what it is that I fear, for they are my near-brothers, but I shall never speak of it to aught else, even to you, _Vron'cor!_"

Chassin and Gerom nodded, to indicate that this secret had indeed been shared with him, though pale green and light grey eyes remained fixed on the endless, churning waves, and they both swallowed slightly. Cohradin narrowed his one blue eye dangerously – "and I do not fear wetness, _Vron'cor_, any more than I fear anything else (apart from the secret thing) – you should not say such words, even in jest! Did we not bathe ourselves, in water previous, as even craven wetlanders do not fear to do? If anyone is a-feared of the... the _wet_, it is Chassin!"

Chassin tore his gaze away from the enormous and vaguely sickening expanse of billowing water, and glared furiously up at his near-brother. "I hold no such fear either, Cohradin, I just prefer to cleanse myself with _sand_, that is all!"

N'aethan sighed. The _Da'shain_ had certainly got _stranger_, in the last three-thousand and whatever-it-was years... perhaps if he were to render them all unconscious, then tow them over to the Tomb one at a time? He glanced at his Aes Sedai... at Ellythia Sedai, as he had begun to think of her. It was quite a beautiful name, he considered, if damned hard to pronounce! _She_ did not seem to find anything perturbing about the prospect of swimming, at least, but was gazing calmly out at where the peaks of World's End cut through the cliffs and extended some way out into the Ocean, a row of immense jagged teeth rising from the rolling water. The nearest of which was not like the others. It ended, abruptly, in a flat plateau, perfectly smooth, as though the pointed peak had been sheered clean off by some ancient force of nature. Well, the peak _had_ been sheered off by some ancient force, after all. Though not of nature – there was nothing particularly natural about Balefire. Quite the opposite, in fact.

As though sensing his eyes on her, Ellythia Sedai turned, raising an enquiring eyebrow. "The flat-topped sea-mount, _that _is where we must go?"

"Yes, Mistress. That is the place. But foolish Shaidos will not swim!"

"They do not know _how_ to, and there is scarcely time to teach them, yes? I see driftwood down there... perhaps we might construct some sort of a raft?"

Cohradin scowled, suspiciously. "What is a 'raft' Aes Sedai?"

* * *

><p>"Keep eyes closed, Shaido! Not far now..."<p>

The three Aiel lay flat on the pale wooden surface, the Maidens of the Spear clutching Gerom on each side, shuddering slightly, their eyes indeed squeezed tight shut. A larger-than-usual wave splashed against the make-shift raft, causing it to tip alarmingly, and Gerom groaned softly. His eyes were closed too. N'aethan kicked a little harder with his soft-booted feet, propelling the crude platform of driftwood logs, bound together with Manda's climbing ropes, toward their destination. A sort of cove at the base of the sea-mount, a steep length of gravelly beach nestled between pale boulders... that looked a likely spot.

"Are we there yet, _Vron'cor?_" Gerom enquired, his voice sounding strained.

"Almost... almost..." the raft bumped against shingles and the Shaido opened their eyes and scrambled from it in ungainly fashion, splashing awkwardly up the abbreviated beach, raising their spears and veiling themselves as they did so.

N'aethan began to swing the raft around, as he had another trip to make. The three Shaido watched him over their dark veils, pressing back as far from the waves as they could get. "You do not need spears now, Shaido," he called to them reassuringly, before setting off back to where the others waited, "Shadowspawn do not like to cross water either!" Though the Shaido seemed to like it even _less_...

* * *

><p>Garbed only in her shift, Ellyth swam resolutely alongside the raft, keeping her mouth firmly closed against the occasional wave that slapped lightly at her face, breathing through her nose... why, she had not been swimming in an Age, but one never forgot how to, once one had learned. She noted that Cohradin was staring at her in amazement as she swam, utilising a smooth breast-stroke, and felt an obscure sense of pride. Though her shift had ridden up her hips a little... she paused, treading water, tugging the thin garment down. He was still staring, but not in <em>that<em> way...

"How do you _do_ that, Ellythia Desiama?" demanded Cohradin, who unlike the other Aiel, had kept his eye firmly open through what seemed to them something of an ordeal, "moving yourself through the water, in that fashion? Is it a thing of the One Power? Why do you not _sink_, Aes Sedai?" His fingers were clutching at the ropes that bound the driftwood logs together, his knuckles looking rather white.

"When the choice is either to sink or to swim, Master Aiel, one _swims_, yes?" Ellyth responded, rather tartly, and continued on her way, feeling pleased with herself. The raft followed-on, propelled by the powerful kicks of Naythan's legs. She was still unsure as to why the Aiel had agreed to put themselves through this unpleasant experience... they had seemed fully prepared to go and dance to their deaths with the Shadowspawn rather than brave the ocean... though she was glad they had not. When it became evident that Naythan would not be going with them to this 'washing of the spears,' they had argued amongst themselves awhile, making those odd hand gestures... at one point she had overheard Cohradin muttering something about, 'taking the Nightwatcher back to Wet Sands to show to old Sadora' which she had not really understood... and they had reluctantly decided to try the raft idea. Though now, were clearly wishing they had not...

The raft-load of Aielmen was only ten spans away from the cove where the others waited, when a large wave rocked them violently, causing the Aiel youth to panic and tumble into the water. The short Aielman with the pale hair grabbed for him, nearly managing to fall in as well, before Cohradin pulled him back onto the raft. The youth thrashed amidst the waves, his fearful cries garbled by the sea splashing into his open mouth.

"Carry on, Naythan!" Ellyth shouted, striking out toward where the bright red mop of hair had disappeared beneath the waves, "_I_ shall fetch him!" The youth continued to thrash and writhe as she dragged him to the surface by his short tail of braided hair, kicking her legs vigorously, his struggles hampering her efforts to save him... "Oh, for the love of-" she snapped, exasperated, and embraced _saidar_, narrowing her eyes and using a club of Air just behind his ear, to stun the lad. He went limp in her arms, and then Naythan was there, paddling alongside. He grinned, raised his eyes in equal exasperation, then tucked a gloved hand under the youth's chin and began to tow him toward where the other Aielmen were scrambling from the raft and up the beach, to join their fellows.

Ellyth swam beside. "_Honestly_," she exclaimed, in-between the splashing waves, so as not to join the youth in swallowing a large amount of the Aryth Ocean, "_Aielmen! _I did not imagine that... _anything_ frightened them... why, when they first invaded... the Cairheinin might have just... tipped buckets of water over them – they should have fled in terror!" Though she was being a little uncharitable, she supposed, it was not _water_ as such that they feared, but seemingly, _deep_ water – water too deep to wade across, in any event... perhaps a long _moat_ of some kind, stretched the length of the Spine of the World, could prevent a further Aiel War? Though in the event, some disreputable peddler would no doubt sell them _boats_, she expected.

"Would not much care to have bucket of water tipped over _me_, Mistress," Naythan commented neutrally, before lugging the comatose Aiel youth up the beach. Ellyth made to follow, but noted with concern that her pale, silken shift was clinging to her in immodest fashion as she began to rise from the water, so retreated from the beach, where resuscitation attempts seemed to be going on. Naythan enthusiastically slapped and shook the Aiel youth whilst the others squatted around them, watching with interest.

"He has swallowed much sea-water, and mayhap a fish or two!" she heard Naythan explaining to the Aiel, cheerfully. At this revelation, their mouths dropped open and they eyed each other uncertainly... the lad's eyelids fluttered and he coughed.

Ellyth swam a little further around the odd sea-mount, examining it as she did so. It rose a good five-hundred spans above the waves, its sheer face riven with numerous fissures. There appeared to be the vestiges of ancient steps cut into the rock further up, leading to the plateau at the top, but no way to reach them that she could see... would they really be safe here? Wherever here was. _Moridin_ meant 'grave' apparently, though it also meant 'tomb.' Well, an appropriate enough place to die, in that wise...

* * *

><p>After slapping young Tevin awake – none too gently, as he was still annoyed about the spying – then helping him to cough-up the large amount of salt-water he had managed to imbibe, N'aethan went to look for Ellythia Sedai. He sniffed, locating her distinctive, fresh aroma, tinged with salt-water. There she was, on the other side of those boulders, he could see her head poking up...<p>

"Mistress, your things are here and I have untied the rope-" N'aethan came to an abrupt halt, staring at the young Aes Sedai, whose wet silken shift was clinging to her slender form in interesting ways... he dropped the saddlebags and sword he was holding.

Ellythia Sedai glared at him. She was good at glaring, he had noticed... though even better at frowning! "Naythan Gaidin, kindly turn your back!" Her face had flushed and her hands, which had been engaged in wringing the water from her dark, chestnut locks, moved angrily to her hips for a moment, but then were rapidly raised to her bosom, perhaps in an attempt to cover the pronounced effect the cold water had had? She scowled. She was good at _that_, too...

N'aethan's strange eyes were still staring, heedless... Ellythia Sedai was not so buxom as the blonde Maiden, nor as long in the leg as the red-head, but her graceful, lithe form, well-displayed in the brief, damp shift, was certainly very-

"Master Shieldman! Do you _mind?_"

Oh, he had completely forgotten about the prudishness! Bad Tro! _Bad!_ N'aethan hastily turned his back. "Sorry Mistress Sedai! Forgot that you were in _dez'abile..._" he tapped his boot against one of the saddlebags at his feet "...your garments are here."

"_Deza_-? What in the Wheel is _that_ supposed to mean?" she demanded, irritated, coming over and grabbing the double leather bags. She sniffed. He could hear her rummaging around in there. "I would suppose that it is _yet another_ word in the Old Tongue that I am not wise enough to comprehend, yes?"

"Oh no, Mistress, word from one of the Lost Speeches, means 'in a state of undress.' " N'aethan stared resolutely out at the waves. You could see further along the coast from this place, the cliffs extending into a pinnacle of jagged rock thrusting out into the ocean. And to think there used to be nothing but farms and vineyards and _Chora_-groves out here! It was all Veic-called-Flagservant's fault, for bringing the World Sea so much closer. While he had respected him for being a Companion, at least until he went insane, N'aethan had never much cared for Veic Sedai... he had been extraordinarily glum, he recalled, a bit like a N'zoarese monk, only less talkative. Behind him, the unmistakeable noise made by a forcefully flung wet silk shift striking a rock! Well, at least she had not thrown it at _him_...

"Why do you not just _say_ 'undressed?' " the young Aes Sedai grumbled, voice sounding somewhat muffled through the layer of silk that she was presumably hastily tugging down over her head.

"Not sure Mistress... _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ being pretentious, doubtless!" N'aethan risked a glance over his shoulder. Well, she was in a dry shift now, at least, and had put her stockings on too, he noted. Rooting around in the saddlebags for one of those odd, embroidered gowns she wore... _Still_ scowling! She was going to strain the muscles around her eyes if she kept doing that... it might even become a permanent expression? Which would be a shame, because he had seen her smile once or twice and she had a very nice-

"Master Shieldman! I am _not_ a Lugard tavern floozy singing and dancing upon a table, and would therefore appreciate it if you stopped staring at me as though I _were_, yes?" She had risen, hands back on her hips, and was definitely blushing, though not near so much as she had back when the naked Shaidos ambushed them!

"Sorry again, Mistress Sedai." N'aethan blinked, gazed back in the other direction, adding; "_certain, I am, that you are more comely than this '_floozy_' you mention, whomsoever she may prove to be..._" Quietly. In the High. Using inferior-to-superior inflection, naturally!

"Yes, well... I am dressed now, you may turn around." N'aethan did so. She was wearing the blue silk robe with the silvery bits embroidered on it, he noted. That was the one she looked nicest in, he thought. Well, the frown was gone, though her eyes narrowed a little as though noticing something _else_ not to her liking... "though perhaps, Naythan Gaidin, you might wish to clothe _yourself_, also?"

Oh, he had forgotten, apart from the gloves, boots and band, he was still just wearing his undershorts! Though they were called 'smallclothes' in the Low, he believed... what an odd word!

"Honestly! Walking about like that... you Age of Legends folk... why, you are as bad as the _Aiel!_"

"If you say so, Mistress," N'aethan sighed, squatting down to pull some of _Sin'val Vadin's_ odd garments from out of the other saddlebags.

_Prude!_ _Though a very pretty prude, for all that! _

A moment of reflective silence, then Ellythia Sedai spoke further, sounding contrite; "well... perhaps I am being a little hard on you, Master Sh- that is to say, Naythan Gaidin... my father always told me that it was foolish to expect someone of a different culture to share one's customs, after all..." There was almost a note of apology in her voice, N'aethan couldn't help but note. "Those _are_ rather odd smallclothes, I must say," the prim young Aes Sedai further observed, "I do not believe I have ever seen their like... most unusual..."

"They are, Mistress? I mean, are they?" As he pulled on a pair of britches, N'aethan noted that the young Aes Sedai was a little flushed still. And if he didn't know her better, he would almost imagine that she was speaking in a slightly nervous fashion! Well, the Servants of All could be confusing... though never _this_ confusing!

"Not that I know a great deal of men's smallclothes, you understand, I would suppose that is more _Shrina's_ department, since she is always complaining that her Warders do not change theirs often enough... or Renn's affair for that matter, since it transpires that she has secretly married _her_ Warder! It is just that the material from which they are made is unfamiliar to me, an Age of Legends fabric, one would imagine, and-" the Aes Sedai abruptly ceased her somewhat meandering words, staring at his side with that dark, liquid gaze. She sounded... shocked. Well, it beat disapproving! "Hold a moment! Where is your _wound_, Naythan?"

N'aethan looked down at his side. There was, of course, no mark on the skin over his ribs to show that he had ever been wounded. "Healed, Mistress."

"But... there is not even a scar!" The Aes Sedai touched her cheek, a little self-consciously, where there was a small, white indentation. N'aethan knew that she regretted the blemish, which was not really big enough to warrant the title 'scar.' Well, there should be something in Father's secret place to take care of that for her... he pulled on a shirt, not caring that he was still damp. Well, not caring _too_ much...

"I do not scar, Mistress... just as well, for what withal _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ has been through over the years, if did, would look worse than _Cohradin!_ Than all of the Shaido put together, nothing but scars! And burns as well, also. After had fought with the Companion Goaeur Rantoel, looked like a roasted pig, did I!" N'aethan shrugged. He might heal fast – Fathers Design... yet again! – but that did not mean getting injured did not _hurt_. It did. _Especially_ anything forged in the vicinity of _Thakan'dar_... _and_ the damn cut had taken nearly twenty-four candles... no, _hours_, to mend, a whole day and a night, usually a simple sword-slash like that closed-up in half the time...

Ellythia Sedai sighed, sounding exasperated, though not without a measure of irony. "_Really!_ You have slept since the end of the Age of Legends, you slay Myrddraal with your bare hands and stand immune to their vile blades... and to _channelling_ also, let us not forget... tell me, Naythan, is there anything _else_ I should know about you? Are you perhaps able to leap over fortress walls with a rescued maiden in each hand? To wrestle with Fire-Giants, or summon storms, perchance?"

"No, no and no, Mistress! None of those things... well, wrestling the giant, mayhap, if was not _too_ big... Aes Sedai, I tell you true; _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ is strong, fast also, heals quick... oh, and can sew and be masseur! But that is about it!"

Hah! He had got the Aes Sedai to smile – hard enough to do! – which was well, for she had a nice smile, even if she was attempting to cover it up behind her serpent-ringed hand. Though come to think of it, there _was_ one other thing he could do... did Ellythia Sedai know about _tel'aran'rhiod _he wondered? Well, she must do, Aes Sedai went there all the time... or they had, at least. He would ask her, later on.

"I see, Naythan Gaidin... and I had begun to think you the stuff that Heroes might be made of... how disappointing! I thought that you might be able to defeat a dozen opponents at a time, as it was said that Mikel of the Pure Heart often did..."

"Who, Mistress?" N'aethan shrugged. He could manage about eight, he thought...

"The Paladin, Sire Mikel... one of the Heroes, bound to the Horn of Valere. My younger brother and I, as children, we always favoured his exploits over those of the other Heroes of the Horn. Thaeus would oft portray Mikel of the Pure Heart in games, whereas _I_ was usually Birgitte of the Silver Bow..."

"Oh, sounds like fun. Perhaps would know him by a different name. _Michael?_ But regret to inform you, Mistress, that I am certainly not _Hero_, only Shieldman... if Myrddraal takes my head, then I will be just as dead as anyone else..."

N'aethan grinned, recollecting. Saying _that_ always made him think of Middle Brother... now _he_ had been a Hero, though did not like being called such, and he was very _good_ at not liking things... and besides, Father certainly never built any enormous statues of _him_...

_Tro felt nervous. This was going to be his first real battle, as far as he could tell, the armoured jo-cars were returning from the sortie, some of them still on fire, and there were jumpers and hoverflies whining briskly overhead, the harsh crack of shocklances getting steadily closer. The Shadow was coming for them..._

_Middle Brother was leaning on his spear, staring patiently at the horizon... he always gave the impression of staring at things, even though this should not have been possible, since- Something big exploded nearby, and Tro's sensitive ears could hear anguished screaming over the roar of flames. He ducked his head a little, wondering what it had been... a Sky-Burner, perhaps..._

_Taw-of-the-Screaming-Spear noted the movement and turned his head in response, the long white hair sweeping back from his pale brow brushing against armoured shoulders, decorated with a Captain's epaulettes. He gazed down at young Tro for a moment. When he spoke, his voice sounded a lot less scary than it usually did, like old paper being rustled, perhaps... well, Middle Brother _was_ in a good mood after all... he was always cheered by the prospect of scourging the Shadow. Which they would be called upon to do quite soon, by the looks of it... Taw's whispering voice sliced through the noise of encroaching battle, a conversational razor-blade;_

"_Nervous?" _

"_Of course not!" Tro declared, stoutly. Well, he was not scared, exactly, he just did not want to mess things up, to make some kind of a foolish mistake in front of the Warmen or worse, the Aes Sedai. Taw smiled, one of his rare, wintry smiles. _

"_You look nervous. Do not fear, Little Brother, if the worst transpires and a Shadowman takes your head, well... I would expect that Father can always grow you a new one!"_

_The company of Warmen waiting stolidly behind, shocklances levelled, eyed their Captain, the Shadow-Scourger, and his young squire, the Thirdborn... the new War-Construct who had recently arrived at the Frontlines, the short one with the strange eyes, who had reportedly been sent to replace the Firstborn... and though curiosity did not occur on their blank, expressionless faces, set like grim masks, they did wonder, at least... why were the Lightborn laughing and slapping each other on the shoulder like that?_

"Why do you smile, Naythan Gaidin?"

"Just remembering something Middle Brother once said to me, Mistress. Had a dark sense of humour, did he, as dark as Father's..." Well, they had had much in common, probably the reason why they never got along – too alike! "...but Elder Brother, now... _he_ was the Hero in the family, not I!" N'aethan shrugged into one of _Sin'val Vadin's_ green coats and slapped the rock wall of the sea-mount. "You will see. This place... _this_ is my Big Brother's place. Father built it for him. His monument. His tomb."

* * *

><p>As they made their way back to where the Aiel waited, Naythan helping her scramble over the steeper rocks, Ellyth glanced sidelong at him a couple of times... there had been undoubted admiration in his eyes for all that he had been rudely staring, and she couldn't help but feel at least a little flattered by the attention. She was no <em>Green<em> – nor a flipskirt like Rashiel either, for that matter! – but even so, it was not entirely unwelcome to know that men thought her attractive. Well, certain men. Shieldmen, she supposed. She coloured. The Aielmen were certainly not ogling, at least, doubtless they thought her rather short and skinny, like a pale Cairheinin waif!

Though to be honest, whilst she was pulling on her stockings, and later, slipping into a dress, Ellyth had found herself doing some of her _own_ staring... apart from the boots and gloves he so rarely removed, Naythan _had_ only been wearing those odd, shimmering smallclothes, after all, and she could not help but run an aesthetic eye over his wide shoulders... broad back... he had a powerful physique, certainly, like that of a wrestler, she supposed... good strong legs... a _very_ firm rump, by the looks of it... and... and then, with consternation, she had realised what she was doing, and had started babbling about _smallclothes_ of all things! What had got into her? It must be something to do with the severance of the bond... either that or they _had_ all managed to drive her mad!

The Aiel were still loitering against the side of the rock-face that loomed above, studiously doing their best to avoid looking at the lapping waves at their feet. The red-headed Maiden, Manda, was slowly coiling one of the long ropes they had used to lash the driftwood logs together. The youth, 'Tevin' she believed he was called, was sitting upright, looking quite recovered from his near-fatal immersion – well, the young always bounced back quickly – and rose hurriedly at her approach, making that odd bow of theirs. He was clad only in his smallclothes, his wet _cadin'sor_ draped over a rock.

"Thank-you for saving me from the 'drowning' Aes Sedai," he spluttered, "may you always find..." he glanced at the churning waves, and gulped, "_water_... and shade..." Then, he sniffed curiously at his bare arm, and dabbed a tongue against his wet skin with interest. "I taste of salt!" he declared.

The blonde Maiden, Jahdi, leant over and licked his cheek, a quick, feline motion, making him flinch. "Yes, you do," she commented. The youth scowled. Then took his smallclothes off too, wringing the seawater out of them. Ellyth glanced elsewhere hastily, though the lad was not _quite_ so alarming a sight as the other Aielmen, unclothed... the short one, _particularly_...

"Where do we go to now, _Vron'cor?_" Cohradin enquired.

Ellyth had noticed that the Shaido Aiel had recently begun to call Naythan '_Vron'cor_' which she presumed to be another of the Old Tongue names the large Aielman, Gerom, came up with, such as '_Sin'val Vadin_.' She thought that it had something to do with watching, since Shrina's steed had a similar name, and _she_ was a Watcher Over the Waves, after all... whatever that was... apart from some drivel about waiting for Artur Hawkwing to return, she had never really understood Shrina's convoluted explanations of her hereditary duties.

Well, 'Vron'cor' had been watching _her_, in just her stockings and shift, after all! Night-Watcher? Peeping-Thom, more like! In addition to telling her the meaning of _cor_, the large Aielman, Gerom, had mentioned that _sorda_ meant 'rat' as far as he was aware, though in the Age of Legends, might well have had a wider meaning, alluding to an alternate rodent in addition. Naythan was scared of _mice?_ Or at least, had bad dreams about them... Well, she had never much cared for the busy little creatures either, the idea of them scurrying up the inside of her skirts did not exactly appeal... but even so...

And for that matter, when had she begun to think of him as 'Naythan' rather than 'the Shieldman?' Well, Naythan _was_ his name, after all... her version of it, at least. Though she still called him 'Master Shieldman' rather than 'Naythan Gaidin' when she was annoyed with him, which was hardly infrequently! Why in the Wheel had he _fought_ with the Aiel? Was it like the ridiculous sparring that Warders got up to, often injuring each other and making more work for their Aes Sedai in the process? The Shaido had all been rather bruised... But come to think of it, was it not at _those_ times, when she was – justifiably! – annoyed with him, that in response to the 'Master Shieldman' he made a point of calling her 'Mistress Sedai' rather than just 'Mistress' to further arouse her ire, as though it were all some silly game! _Honestly!_ He was like a bloody child, oft-times!

Though certainly quite manly at others, Ellyth had to admit... she was no trembling, distressed damsel in need of a protector, far from it, but certainly felt a deal safer in his company. He seemed to exude a comforting, reassuring aura... though perhaps this was in part due to the Shield-_ter'angreal_ that he wore? Well, so long as he wore it, she could always sense where he was, which was a little like the Warder-bond in a way... and the closest they would come to it, given his unusual immunity to weaves of the One Power. But he was a worthy, if infuriatingly enigmatic, ally against the Shadow. Though that _still_ did not give him the right to stare so salaciously at her unclad – well, barely clad – body! Ellyth coloured further.

"Where, Cohradin?" Naythan pointed a gloved finger skyward. "We go _up_."

* * *

><p>The waves pounded against the jagged rocks far below and Manda did her best not to look down. It was all that <em>water<em> down there that bothered her, not the height, which was nothing – she had scaled towering, oddly-shaped spires in the Three-fold Land that were ten times this tall, that she had climbed for no other reason than to see if it could be done! Because they were there, she supposed... it felt good, to be climbing again. She swung a long leg up onto the narrow ledge, glancing cautiously about before pulling herself up to rest for a moment, the rope she intended to lower from the summit bound tightly around her waist.

_Finally_, Manda was getting to use her climbing ropes for their intended purpose, instead of for the drying of _cadin'sor!_ It was sheer luck she had even had the ropes with her when Sadora the Wise One drove them out into the unclaimed lands with her stick, she had been planning to scale one of the tall stacks to the south of Wet Sands later on that day, but had been sent to search for He Who Comes With the Dawn in stead... though they _still_ had not found him, _and_ it was Cohradin's fault – he was an _idiot_, even when compared with most men! Manda did not object to a certain amount of idiocy in a man, provided that he was, at least, a pretty fellow – like the young Gleeman, Roth Blucha, for example. Not a brain in his head, yet with silky brown hair that flopped attractively over his fine green eyes... and surprisingly unscarred... it was interesting to lie abed with a man who had skin smooth as a babe's bottom! Yes, a very handsome specimen, the Gleeman... a term that could certainly not be applied to _Cohradin_. He had a very foolish name, also. _Knife Hands!_

Manda took another careful glance about the ledge before resuming her climb, fingers and bare toes digging confidently into cracks in the sheer face. Just in case. Gerom had told her that they did not have scorpions in the wetlands, but it was best to be sure... there had been that time one of the creatures had stung her whilst halfway up a steep crag, and she had been left with no option but to continue her ascent one-handed, since the other hand had swelled-up like one of those air-filled bladder things the young Gleeman had used to entertain the children of the Sept... and later on that night, when he inflated those snake gizzards and twisted them into the shapes of different animals, _that_ had been very amusing... why, even old Sadora had laughed! No-one at Wet Sands had ever heard their ancient Wise One _laugh_ before – they had wondered what the strange sound was, at first!

Manda was now but twenty spans from where those ancient-looking steps clung to the side of the rock-face... she paused a moment, on a further ledge. Far below, she could see the others looking up at her and beyond them... Manda gulped, and tore her eyes away. It was not the drop that troubled her, but that expanse of rolling sea... who would have thought there could be so much _water _in the world – and not a drop of it even fit for goats to drink!

Manda was shamed to think of her fear, whilst she was being propelled over the surface of that churning water on the raft-thing... the way she had clutched at Gerom, like a terrified little girl... though she had heard Jahdi whimpering and doing much the same on the other side of him... she was glad Cohradin had not seen. Ashamed, also, that she had thought so little of the Aes Sedai at first... her fires were as impressive as Cohradin had claimed, her healing also, but having seen her move herself miraculously through the water, she had newfound respect for Ellythia Desiama... and _Vron'cor_ had travelled through these 'waves' also, as though it were nothing – but it was different for him, he was a Hero, albeit one she had long thought mythical! He had taken the magical blue fruit from the Fire Giants as part of his fifth, had he not? Why, the Nightwatcher could do anything, even this 'swimming.' There was much courage in him, honour also. And he _did_ have very pretty eyes, except for when he was annoyed about something, when they went a bit narrow...

Manda scowled herself, glancing back down, her eyes on her fellow Maiden... that slinking cat Jahdi had best not try any of her dishonourable wiles again... why, she had _seen_ her, that very morning, asking _Vron'cor_ coy questions about himself and batting her eyelids... pouting... and practically pushing her big bosoms into his face! _Just_ as she had with Metlin the Silversmith! _And_ the Gleeman! Spear-sister or no, if she carried on in that wise, there would be _trouble!_

Manda was about to resume her climb when a rope-end came sailing down and hit her on the head. One of _her_ ropes, that which she had given to _Vron'cor_ – and there he was, looking down at her from the summit, grinning and waving! Manda frowned. _Now_ she would have to give to the Nightwatcher the nugget of gold she had wagered, since he had got to the top first! How had he climbed so fast? Well, he was _Vron'cor_, he was not as ordinary men, doubtless he had scaled the wall like a lizard...

Manda pulled herself quickly up the rope as far as the steps, then ascended the crumbled staircase with swift, agile grace. A gloved hand helped her over a low wall that seemed to run around the top of the odd, flat peak. Manda regarded the Nightwatcher, who was a little shorter than she. "You climbed up here very swiftly, _Vron'cor,_" she exclaimed.

The Nightwatcher shrugged, and dubiously regarded the small lump of metal that had been pressed into his hand. "Told you we did not have to make wager," he protested, "Father always warned me not to gamble... once lost big on the _chinje_ tables, did he... so, what are these golden rocks used for, anyway?"

* * *

><p>Whilst Manda was making her more direct ascent, N'aethan had wandered further around the base of the peak, clambering over the pale boulders that were about all that was left of the edifice that had once towered above. One of the larger rocks might have been a nose, but he was unsure. It was certainly nose-shaped, though. Out of sight of the others, he then tucked his gloves into a pouch, slung his boots about his neck by the laces, extended his weapons and climbed swiftly up the sheer face of the sea-mount. Which was not a sea-mount, like the others, but something else, of course. Something hidden beneath tons of granite, behind more than three millennia of forgotten lore. While he climbed, he thought about the dedication. But more than that, he thought about the statue. No, the <em>Statue<em>. Even Middle Brother had been impressed by the Statue, though he had pretended that he was not... well, it was gone now. As was so much else, seemingly.

N'aethan sighed, shook his head, and began to knot the two ropes together. That should be long enough... meanwhile, the Maiden was explaining Third Age economics;

"It is called 'gold'_ Vron'cor_ – it is considered valuable, by the wetlanders!"

"It is? Strange... well, mayhap I can give it to someone somewhere, and they will make for me a hat in recompense? The Aes Sedai said that I should get a hat. Or... are there still shops? Hat shops?"

"In the City of the Treekillers, I believe that there are such things to be found, if the tricksome Taardad and the stinking Shaarad and the other fools did not burn them all down. But there are always peddlers, of course... one of them might trade to you a hat, though you should demand many other things also for a nugget of that size, _Vron'cor_; books, tabac, pins..." Manda raised a warning finger; "you should _not_ let the peddler cheat you!"

"Good to know. I will not." N'aethan yanked hard, and the knot did not slip.

Manda was regarding him speculatively, arms crossed, head tilted slightly to one side. "Tell me,_ Vron'cor_, after you went to fetch her, why was the Aes Sedai so red in the face?"

"She was blushing."

"Oh. But why?"

"I saw her in her shift." N'aethan began to coil the rope.

"I fail to understand, _Vron'cor_... why would that upset her, for you to see her thus?" Manda sounded genuinely puzzled. "Her face was red as a _tomato_-fruit, just as it was before when we encountered you and she after we had washed ourselves in water, as do wetlanders... is it a thing of Aes Sedai, this blushing?"

"It is now, seemingly! They call it 'modesty.' " N'aethan shrugged. "Though she carries it a little far..." He scowled. "_Vron'cor_ was not staring in _rude_ way! Not licking lips and waggling eyebrows suggestively, nor making carnal noises in back of throat, neither!"

"Modesty? I do not know what that is, _Vron'cor_. But I have bathed with the Aes Sedai, and would be glad to describe her to you, if she holds your interest."

"Uh..."

"Tevin told me he saw you stroking her neck, which I presume to be an intimate behaviour of wetlanders? I will be as a first-sister to you, _Vron'cor_, as though I had viewed her in the sweat-tent on your behalf! The Aes Sedai (though short) has lissom legs, like those of a dancer. Her skin is very smooth, and pale as milk also. Her hips are nicely rounded, waist small and her breasts (while not overlarge) are firm and well-shaped, like ripe-"

"Stop telling me of naked Aes Sedai!" N'aethan protested, his voice sounded a little strangled, "not proper, so to do!"

"But _Vron'cor_, I thought that-"

"Well, thought _wrong_, did you!"

"I see. You are forbidden from lying with an Aes Sedai, perhaps?"

"Not exactly... _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ used to get invited to take bath and drink honey-wine with Karella Sedai sometimes, when she was not bathing with her Warman Honour Guard in stead... liked to take baths with _whole squad_, did she! And there was Elisane Sedai, for a while, until she became angry with Shieldman for always waking her up with bad dreams about not being able to catch... whatever it is that is too quick for me... and then there was... well, anyway, not the issue – hardly forbidden, although! Frowned-upon, probably, but... well, women are strange creatures, Aes Sedai most of all! Never know _what_ will claim their affections!"

Of course, there had been quite a few _Da'shain'mai_ over the years, as well... what with not being Heal-able, N'aethan had been something of a regular visitor to the various medical-bunkers and infirmaries dotted along the Northborder camps, often waking up swathed in bandages, a tall, fair-haired maiden leaning solicitously over him, her pretty, light-coloured eyes twinkling above a green surgical-veil... well, there were much worse ways to meet girls than that! Those _Da'shain_ nurses... they could be surprisingly forward, at times...

Manda was not listening, and had moved closer. She was fluttering her eyelashes a little, he noted. "You are sure, _Vron'cor_, sure that you do not have an interest in the Aes Sedai?"

"No! I mean yes, am sure!" Though not _that_ sure, come to think of it...

Manda smiled, a slow smile. "In that wise, perhaps your interest might lie elsewhere... I have felt your eyes on me, _Vron'cor_, noticed your attention..."

Clearly things hadn't changed completely for the _Da'shain!_

N'aethan blinked. "Oh, you are trying to engage _my_ interest, Cohradin told me of this custom... _that_ is why you gave to me the gift of the small and shiny rock!"

"No, _Vron'cor_, you misunderstand, it does not work like that, the man must give the woman an interest-gift, not the other way around... _that_ was our _wager_, you won the nugget honourably by gaining the top of this spire before I!" More speculative glances from the Maiden... she was pouting a bit, too, just like the other one had... "Though I suppose that I _am_ attempting to attract your interest, _Vron'cor_... you are certainly of interest to _me_..."

N'aethan considered a moment... it was not that he wasn't _tempted_... it _had_ been more than three thousand years since he had been with a woman, after all! But from snide comments that he had heard Cohradin make, he gathered that the two Maidens of the Spear had something of a history of fighting with each other... fighting over men, at that! _Barbaric!_ Titillating, also! Flattering, to be fought over by females, certainly... but it would be bad for morale if the Maidens started hitting and kicking each other... hair-pulling might be involved... fingernails also... His Aes Sedai was bound to disapprove of that sort of thing, and since it seemed he was finally getting on the right side of her, he did not wish to jeopardise this. Besides, he had already been through it with Jahdi that morning, all this talk of 'interest' and so forth, so N'aethan proceeded to tell Manda the exact same thing he had told her. _Always_ the best policy when you had two women to lie to and not just the one! Sometimes, they got together and compared notes, and you could get into even worse trouble if the stories did not match up...

"_Vron'cor_ would be delighted to lie with you Maiden..." (or lie _to_ you!) "...but would not be seemly. The Nightwatcher is character from _children's_ tale, after all!" N'aethan nodded, solemnly. "Role-model for good _Aiel_-children, am I. Cannot indulge in such licentious behaviour and be _Vron'cor_ at same time! Regret it much..." – well, he _did_, that was no lie! – "...but must refuse your interest or lose _ji_."

Manda blinked, considered this a moment, began to open her mouth-

"Hoy!" It was Cohradin's voice, echoing distantly up to them. Manda scowled. "What are you _doing_ up there, Maiden? Are you kissing _Vron'cor_ upon the cheek, or even the lips? Throw down a rope, I say!"

"I would that I had hit him _harder!_" Manda growled.

* * *

><p>Ellyth moaned, eyes squeezed tightly shut. This served her right, it was her just desserts for being so smug about her ability to swim... she had no fear of the ocean depths – well, provided that they did not prove to contain sharks or lionfish – but when it came to <em>heights<em>... The rope swung alarmingly, and she clutched at it tighter, the woven sling she sat in digging into her bottom, her upward progress halting for a moment, before it resumed. In addition to being unpleasant, this was also _humiliating_... the Aiel had swarmed up the rope like _Atha'an Miere_ up a mast, but _she_ was being tugged up like... like _luggage!_

"Nearly there, Mistress!" called Naythan, cheerfully. He stood balanced easily on the parapet at the top, reeling in the rope to which his Aes Sedai was attached, hand over hand... Ellyth risked a glance, taking care to look up and not down, this time. As she came level with where the ancient crumbled steps began, the big Aielman, Gerom, reached out a massive arm to draw her in to comparative safety. Ellyth unwisely looked on the jagged rocks and roiling seas beneath as he did so, and clutched nervously at his _cadin'sor_. Gerom helped her to scramble further back onto the ancient steps, then stared expectantly at the short Aielman – 'Chassin' she believed he was called. Chassin sighed, and dug something out of his belt – a rather fine silver brooch in the shape of a trefoil-leaf, she noted. He looked at it with regret, then handed it to Gerom, who examined it with a connoisseur's eye, before tucking it away.

Ellyth regarded them both, a feathery eyebrow raised. When the Aielmen did not say anything, she enquired; "am I the subject of some sort of _wager?_"

Chassin shrugged. "It is said that the Aes Sedai can fly through the air, as do birds," he muttered, frowning.

Gerom nodded. "Chassin said that you would use your Powers to fly up to here, Aes Sedai, but I thought it unlikely, given that you have not already used them to depart this dangerous place and return to your White Tower, soaring through the sky like an eagle." Chassin scowled, and shook his head slowly from side to side.

Ellyth blinked. It was quite an image, certainly... well, once again, it seemed that she had failed to live up to the expectations of the Aiel! She sometimes got the impression that they were disappointed that she was not ten feet tall, and did not breathe fire! Though she could certainly summon flames readily enough, for all that they did not emerge from her mouth... well, she was rather glad that they did not!

"You _do_ realise that I am _not_ an Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends?" Ellyth snapped. "Doubtless _they_ could all fly, whereas _I_... well... like an eagle, you say? What nonsense!"

Naythan had joined them by this, had caught what they were saying on the way down the steps – he had sharp ears. _Literally!_ "Oh no, Mistress, Flight a very rare Talent, even then. Kiam Sedai could fly, she was always swooping around, _annoying_, but never met another Aes Sedai who..."

Ellyth was eyeing him pointedly. She glanced wordlessly at the Aiel, then back at him. Naythan smiled weakly. "Read of it in a book, did I," he muttered. "About the flying," he added to the Aielmen, as though they had not taken his point. They nodded gravely. Ellyth sighed. He really was a _most_ ill-accomplished liar!

"This is the way..." Naythan said, gesturing at the narrow, uneven steps.

Ellyth held on to his arm rather tightly on the way up. "_Do_ bear in mind what I mentioned concerning _discretion_, Master Shieldman!" she hissed, as they ascended.

"Yes, Mistress Sedai. Sorry, Mistress Sed-"

"Oh, stop it!"

* * *

><p>N'aethan turned away from the Shaido, who were all resolutely staring landward, he noted, from whence he could distantly hear the sound of approaching Trolloc horns and see the occasional speck that was a flying Draghkar, though too far away to see <em>them<em>... he thought that their rigid stance and flat-eyed gaze toward the broken cliffs had less to do with this and more with the fact that they were now surrounded on all other sides by an endlessness of grey, rolling water, punctuated in places with jagged sea-mounts rising from the depths. Ellythia Sedai was examining the two great pale, eroded lumps atop the long plinth that occupied the centre of the glass-smooth rock beneath them. N'aethan sighed. All that was left of Big Brother... She glanced at him.

"I could almost imagine that these are _feet_, Naythan Gaidin," she exclaimed, "except that they are, of course, too large, yes?" She squinted. "Those impressions there, though, they _could_ be toes... how I wish Renn were here! Preferably, in that silly boat that her Warder – her _husband!_ – utilises to terrorise the mercantile classes who frequent the Erinin... much as I dislike travelling over the waves..."

N'aethan was not sure what all this meant. Neither was Cohradin. "_Boat_, Aes Sedai?" he enquired, sounding worried, before his eye drifted to the grey oceanic vista behind her. He gulped and turned away hastily. Ellythia Sedai moved nearer to the pedestal in that gliding way of hers, examining it closely. N'aethan followed-on.

"Renn _always_ knows about ancient lore, old statues, lost cities... if only she were here... Shrina also... and those are _definitely_ toes!"

N'aethan nodded. "Elder Brother liked to wear sandals. Toes they are, Mistress." His Aes Sedai often mentioned this 'Renn,' as well as a 'Shrina.' They were Aes Sedai too, apparently, though did not sound as though they were from some of the things that she had said about them! But it was good to know that there were other Aes Sedai left, at least two others, anyway... perhaps they were back at this White Tower of hers, with their Warmen and _Da'shain?_

Ellythia Sedai blinked at him, glanced over to ensure that the Aiel were out of ear-shot, lowering her voice anyway. "Your eldest brother... I believe that you called him the Firstborn..?"

"In the Light, yes Mistress." That distinction was always important to N'aethan.

"There was a statue of him here?" Again, she seemed to take in the sheer size of the feet, the massive slab of dark, rough stone, shot with red veins, now revealed as a pedestal... and shook her head. "It must have been _enormous_..."

"Yes, Mistress... one-thousand times the height of Elder Brother, it was. Impressive a spectacle, in truth... though for only a year! Took Father three months to create statue, it did, sculpting the face whilst his assistants carved the body – yet took Ishar Morrad Chuain three _seconds_ to destroy..."

N'aethan scowled, his eyes slitting and the Aes Sedai jumped.

"Sorry Mistress!"

"That is alright, Naythan Gaidin, I have almost become accustomed to it..."

"Aginor! _Hated_ Father, even sent _Gholam_ to kill him..." N'aethan glanced down at the glassy stone beneath his booted feet and smiled darkly. "Well, Father trapped _Gholam_ – kept! Sent Aginor a thank-you note; 'thank-you for sending to me so interesting a test-subject, my Old Master!' " He grinned, "Father had sense of humour, whatever else they said about him, could not deny _that_..." then became solemn again. "Aginor _very_ angry – the Shadow had but three or four of the _Gholamin_ left by this – because he had _wasted_ one, got in big trouble with Ishamael, so what did evil old Grandfather do? He destroyed Big Brother's statue. Used an Earth-Melter. Petty!" N'aethan frowned, then shrugged. "Only feet left now, and they do not even look much like feet anymore – but _nothing_ can destroy Tomb itself, down there... Father should have made statue _cuendillar_ also!"

"The tomb of your eldest brother... it lies beneath, yes?" N'aethan nodded. "Then how do we get inside?"

N'aethan reached into the back of his belt where he yet retained a couple of his smaller pouches, though the rest he had stowed in the saddlebags along with his _cadin'gai_. He held up a sphere of clear, multi-faceted crystal.

"With Key may we enter, Mistress."

* * *

><p>Ellyth stared – for a moment she had thought that it was <em>the<em> Crystal, the _ter'angreal_ that she had found within the _stedding_ that brought her to this place, but it was smaller and not flattened. Still a _ter'angreal_ though, her Talent was informing her... and, like his Shield, it felt _new_.

Naythan smiled. "It is well that you are here, Aes Sedai, for this needs must be used in tandem with the One Power." The smile became rueful. "Father gave Key to me, long time ago, gave one to Middle Brother also... but did not trust us to come here alone, without one of his Apprentices! Only ever came here when he summoned us, did we... This was Father's... private place. Where he came to think... and to do his most secret work. We should be careful."

Ellyth took the proffered crystal-sphere from his hand less gingerly than she might have, since for all that it was an untried and untested _ter'angreal_, it had some kind of provenance at least. Naythan seemed to have no fear of the various _ter'angreal_ he carried about his person, which really, he should have entrusted into _her_ keeping, though had stoically resisted all of her attempts at suggesting he do so! Shield... Key... so what was the other one? There were definitely _three_ of them...

Naythan helped her up onto the huge pedestal, where the massive feet stood. Atual had once told her of two ancient stone feet by the lake that bordered the city of his birth, all that was ever completed of a statue of Yurian Stonebow... but they had been much smaller, she believed. Between those ancient remnants, a grid of rectangular bars was sunk into the dark stone, set in the middle of the plinth.

"Let us pass beneath the feet of a Hero," intoned Naythan, sounding a little like a Bard, Ellyth thought, "let us walk down into the Underworld." He tilted his head back, strange eyes scanning the grey skies above. "As I think me it will soon begin to rain," he added, darkly. He seemed to dislike the rain as much as the short Aielman, Chassin, who was always complaining of it – _more_, if anything!

"What must I do, Naythan Gaidin?"

"Mistress, you could channel small amount of Fire and Earth into the Key?"

Ellyth did so, carefully keeping the threads as thin as possible. She noted that they were both the Powers more strongly associated with _male_ channellers. And a bright, white light flared in the centre of the crystal sphere, as an answering flash of light seemed to come from somewhere deep within the pedestal. Ellyth gasped, almost dropping the _ter'angreal_ in her surprise. A grinding, rumbling sound from beneath her feet. In the grid below where the enormous statue must have stood, a way downwards was opening. The Aiel turned to stare and Ellyth was scarcely less intrigued by the deliberate, unearthly movement of ancient stone as one-by-one, in a smooth cascade, rectangular blocks sunk into the pedestal, each descending a step lower than the one preceding... and a passage down into the darkness opened up.

Naythan nodded with satisfaction, then glanced enquiringly at Ellyth. Clearly, he wanted his _ter'angreal_ back! She returned it to him reluctantly, wondering what else it might open. Naythan stared down into the dark, squinting, then frowning.

"Strange... there should be a Warding."

Ellyth came over to stand next to him, glancing down at where the row of steep steps disappeared into the gloom.

"There is no Warding, Naythan Gaidin. Not of _saidar_, at least."

"Oh no, Mistress, it would have been Warding of _saidin_, Ward against Shadow-wrought. Strange, that it is not here..."

Ellyth frowned. How would he know if it was there or not? She channelled and a ball of white light hung overhead as they made their way down the steep steps, Naythan walking warily just ahead of her, the Aiel following-on, seemingly glad to get away from the disconcerting view. The steps went down quite far, the interior of the sea-mount must be hollow. And ahead, the staircase opened out into a broad, curving gallery – opposite, set into the white, gleaming wall, a plaque displaying the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai; ebon Dragon's Fang and ivory Flame of Tar Valon, twined together. The walls were _very_ white, in fact, and inspecting them closer, Ellyth realised that they were _cuendillar_. The air smelled rather musty, though there was no dust.

"Is this another _Allen'tuadhe, Vron'cor?_" enquired Gerom, similarly inspecting the gleaming surface.

"No... and please to stop speaking of milk, big Shaido, unless you know where there is a cow... it is _heartstone_."

Naythan seemed preoccupied, looking up and down the gallery, which curled away in each direction, curving downwards, as though a pair of ramps descended to whatever lay below. His gloved hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

"I saw a cup made of heartstone, once," commented Chassin, "but I did not know that you could make a whole wall out of it."

Ellyth examined the two directions that lay open to them. "Which way should we go, Naythan Gaidin?" she enquired, entirely willing to let him take the lead in these strange halls. From above, she could still hear the hollow pounding of waves, but distantly, the still atmosphere of this ancient gallery seeming to swallow-up sound.

"Either way, Mistress, both lead to the same place."

After a short descent, the ramp opened out into a massive, circular chamber, on the far side of which she could see another ramp descending. A hemisphere of crystal was set into the centre of the dome-like ceiling, like those in the place where she had found Naythan asleep, but much larger. It flickered to life as they stepped from the ramp, bathing the chamber in a pale illumination. Ellyth let the _saidar_ light she was channelling wink out, but did not release the Source. She felt like an intruder in some forbidden sepulchre... well, she _was_.

In the centre of the chamber, a statue loomed over what was unmistakeably a tomb, a long rectangle of smooth marble, ancient, carven words covering its every surface. They did not look like the Old Tongue, but some other, stranger script that seemed partially composed of pictures of eyes and hawks and other things. Naythan promptly went to kneel before the tomb, lowering his head, whilst Ellyth inspected the statue. Perhaps it was a smaller version of that which had once stood above? She glanced at Naythan, about to enquire, but his eyes were closed, his lips moving in a silent blessing, so she respectfully left him to his devotions. The Aiel lingered by the ramp, looking about themselves uncertainly.

Gazing up at the statue, Ellyth instinctively knew that she was looking upon a Hero. The figure could be nothing else. Skilfully rendered in the purest marble, standing twice the height of a man. The muscular – extraordinarily muscular – physique was well-displayed, for the statue wore but a kilt – and sandals also, she noted, leather straps laced over bulging calves. The shaggy pelt of some great beast was draped over massive shoulders, the head of what might have been a bear falling down to the brow. Long hair; pale, marbled locks, hanging to either side of a thick neck, corded with muscle... a golden circle set into the broad chest, over the heart.

Held in those powerful, carven hands, something that was _not_ a part of the statue itself; a great axe with a white haft of some strange metal, four curving blades extending from the raised end, blades of some dull, silvery alloy set equidistant about the haft. The blades had fluted holes set in their centres. There appeared to be writing inscribed on the haft in silvery letters. _That_ looked like the Old Tongue...

Ellyth's dark, liquid gaze returned to the statue's head... the sculpted features... a bold face, a powerful jaw, broad mouth set in a wide and slightly savage smile, expressing an odd mixture of implacable strength and great good-humour. Where the eyes might have been, two pale, crystalline orbs shone fitfully in the low light. So, this was Naythan's brother... there seemed little in the way of familial resemblance, as with she and Thaeus... though there _was_ something about the mouth, a suggestion of humour to the curve of the lips, that _did_ remind her of Naythan...

"Wan-of-the-Howling-Axe."

Ellyth jumped. Naythan stood beside her, having approached with his customary unnerving silence, and stood gazing up at the stony features, wistful regret on his face... but pride, also. "The Firstborn... Hero of the Light."

"Your brother?"

"Elder Brother. But many names, had he! Even more than me. Wish I had met him, he had already left the _Collam Aman_ to join the fighting when I was born in the Light, and fell in battle before I was permitted to go north to the War... though Middle Brother told me stories about him. He was a great man, was Big Brother."

Ellyth glanced toward the Shaido, but they seemed to be out of ear-shot.

"Your brothers... they had abilities such as yours, I would presume?"

"Oh yes, Mistress, though they were both much tougher than I. If not so fast. Not ordinary men, Heroes both. Middle Brother had many tricks, but his chief ability was to be _terrifying!_ Even Father unnerved by him, sometimes! And Elder Brother, well..." Naythan gestured at the statue that towered above them, "...he was not just my Big Brother because he was _older_ than me... this statue is life-size, Mistress!"

Ellyth stared. This elder brother of Naythan's, he would have loomed over Ogier, even! Like a Giant, from the ancient legends. He must have been a formidable warrior indeed... "How did he die?" Ellyth blinked, glanced at Naythan, who was looking preoccupied. "Forgive me, I should not have asked..."

"Why not? Will tell you gladly, Mistress, it is a stirring tale, but there are things I must look into first." Naythan scowled. "Someone has been here..." He walked around the tomb, Ellyth following, and for the first time, she noticed that there was something else there, an open casket placed at the foot of the oddly-carved marble bier... a _cuendillar_ box, with what was unmistakeably one of the crystalline _ter'angreal_ that opened such things fused into the centre of the longest side. Unlike the Crystal she had found, this flattened-sphere had only eight facets and was blood-red... in fact, there appeared to be dark, faded stains on the stone floor beside the casket, perhaps even a trail leading up to it... _that_ looked like the ancient traces of someone's shed blood... what had happened here?

Naythan was staring down into the open _ter'angreal_-box, as empty as the one he had once occupied now was. This box was much smaller, if someone had been inside it, they would have had to hunch over, doubled-up on themselves. There was a strange look in his eyes...

"This is not good, Mistress." Naythan reached into the back of his belt and produced a dark, round length of what might have been metal, that filled his grip. He did something with his thumb, and a dull, silvery blade sprang from one end. It looked as though it were forged of the same alloy as the blades of the odd-looking axe. He glanced down at it before his eyes returned to scanning the chamber.

Something in his tone of voice made Ellyth glad that she was still holding the Source, and she glanced about herself cautiously. "What is wrong, Naythan?"

"Father's _Gholam_... it has escaped!"

* * *

><p>"There is something here, <em>Vron'cor<em>." Cohradin was squatting by a dusty mound in the corner, examining it. The Nightwatcher came over to look.

"Hmm... old garments. And bones."

They investigated the ancient remains, but could discover little... a yellowing skeleton wearing the remnants of oilcloth breeches and a ragged silken cloak... the grinning skull (well, they always grinned, in Cohradin's experience) had sharper incisors than looked usual, as though the eye teeth had been filed to points. That made him think of something that he would rather not consider, something he had seen in the Blight once, and wished that he had not...

_Vron'cor_ retrieved something from by the skull, a golden ring attached by links of the same metal to another ring, which gleamed whitely... he twirled the short, thick chain thoughtfully in his gloved hand... an ivory-hilted dagger lay nearby, dried traces of old, dark blood on the blade... it was finely-worked, and as the Nightwatcher did not seem to want it, Cohradin tucked it behind his belt.

_Vron'cor_ frowned. He seemed troubled. Cohradin had not realised that the Nightwatcher was capable of being troubled by anything. It was troubling...

"Someone came here who was not supposed to come here..." _Vron'cor_ muttered darkly, "someone let it out of its box... perhaps _this_ someone," he gestured at the bones, "and I think that they did not find what they expected."

Cohradin was uncertain about this 'go-lam' creature, some sort of Shadow-wrought apparently, but whatever it was, it seemed to be long gone. The Shaido had spread-out to search the chamber, though there were few enough places to hide... Somebody had intruded here, by the looks of it, but a very long time ago, the tomb lying undisturbed since. Cohradin stood, glancing about the strange room with the glowing light in the roof, at the statue and tomb of _Vron'cor's_ brother. He who wore the skin of a bear and smote the Shadow with an enchanted axe of four silver blades – and there it was, right there! Would _all_ the old stories come alive?

Cohradin had heard the tale of this 'Snowpelt' as a boy, a great Hero also, but had not realised that he and the Nightwatcher were related! Though perhaps they were not actual first-brothers, but that it was more in the way that he, Chassin and Gerom were near-brothers, as well as brother _Sovin Nai?_ It would be fine indeed, to be a Hero and be addressed by all of the other Heroes as 'Brother' Cohradin thought... he had always desired to be a Hero, like his ancestor, Mighty Sasaradin.

_Vron'cor_ rose from the mysterious bones, which he had been sniffing at, returning to the Aes Sedai. Cohradin followed. Ellythia Desiama was lingering beside the tomb, rubbing her arms and shivering a little. She had put on that Warder's cloak of hers, that shifted its colours, so her pale face framed by the oddly-curled hair seemed to float in the still, dusty air. She cocked her head, as though hearing a sound that Cohradin could not, then eyed the rings on the chain that the Nightwatcher was still twirling idly about his fingers.

"That is a _ter'angreal_, yes?" the Aes Sedai exclaimed, with a touch of excitement. "The larger of the rings upon the chain, that which is not fashioned of gold..."_ Vron'cor_ held it up helpfully for her to examine. "It is a sort of white-gold, I fancy... most unusual..."

"_Platinum_, it is, Mistress... such were often made of this metal..."

The Aes Sedai reached out cautiously, touching the larger palely gleaming ring. "What manner of _ter'angreal_ is it, Naythan?"

"Mistress, think you would say... hmm... 'Ring-of-Calling?' "

"What does it do?"

"Nothing! Not any more at least, calling-boxes all dead now, think I... you say that you use pigeons in these times?" _Vron'co_r grinned. "_Pigeons!_"

The Aes Sedai frowned, briskly snatching the rings and chain from the Nightwatcher. "I am glad that the primitive usages of these backward times continues to provide you with amusement, Gaidin!" she snapped.

"Oh, but it _does_, Mistress!"

The Aes Sedai sniffed, before tucking the rings on their chain into her belt pouch. "Yes, well... useless or otherwise, I shall keep it in any case... perhaps it may help to solve the mystery of who has trespassed here before us..." she glanced around at the ancient chamber, seeming a little at a loss. "So... this is the safe refuge you mentioned, yes?" she enquired of the Nightwatcher, sounding quite doubtful.

Cohradin shared her doubt... this was an interesting place, if gloomy, and well-defensible against the Shadow-twisted, who would certainly not like to cross the intervening water any more than _he_ had, but there were practical concerns... he wondered if there was anything to eat here... it did not _look_ as though there was. The other Shaido were squatting on their heels, over by the ramp-thing. Doubtless they would blame _him_ for the paucity of hospitality to be had here, in this strange and barren place!

"Oh no, safe place, sanctuary, that is downstairs..." _Vron'cor_ grinned. "_Under_ _the Tomb!_" After a moment, when no-one reacted, he sighed. "That is title of famous book," he muttered. Then went over to the marble bier of his Brother-Hero and began to push his fingers into some of the strange shapes carved on its surface. "_Think_ I remember how to do this," he commented, his thumb shoving against something that looked like a sun, and there was a loud click. The top of the tomb was divided down the middle, and the two halves began to swing open!

"You should not disturb the bones of the dead, Naythan!" the Aes Sedai objected, sounding shocked. _Vron'cor_ shook his head.

"Elder Brother not in here, Mistress... his body was never recovered, just the Weapon..." he nodded at the big axe-thing the statue held, "this is no tomb – it was all a sham! To hide Father's secret place! Statue upstairs was memorial, I suppose, but that is gone now..."

Cohradin joined _Vron'cor_ beside the tomb that was not a tomb as the heavy marble swung back against the sides, one end sliding down also. He looked into the open, carved aperture – there were _steps_ in there, leading downwards... _more_ steps!

"If it is _not_ a tomb, then what is this place, _Vron'cor?_" he whispered.

"This is Father's place, Cohradin, made for when the worst had come about."

"The worst?"

"Yes, the very worst... prepared this place, did he, for the end of the world!"

The Aes Sedai joined them, her dark eyes peering down into the gloom. "Well, that is appropriate enough, since it lies at World's End."

"No Mistress, was not called that then... and did not mean geographical location, this is _sanctuary_, created for the end of all things, safe refuge to flee to when the world comes to an end, mean I!"

"Ah, like a keep in a fortress, for when the walls are breeched."

"If you say so, Mistress."

Cohradin frowned. "_Keep?_"

"What I believe you term a 'hold' Master Aiel," the Aes Sedai told him.

"A Hold?" Cohradin exclaimed. Finally, something he could understand! He turned to the Nightwatcher, "this place is your father's Hold, _Vron'cor?_" This might cause problems of etiquette, he feared – should they be here at all, when no Roofmistress had invited them inside? Although there did not seem to be a Roofmistress here, or anyone else for that matter... just the dead fellow over in the corner... a strange Hold indeed!

"Well, I suppose it is..." _Vron'cor_ slipped between the carved marble walls that now bounded the steps and started down, following the Aes Sedai who had summoned her glowing One Power light again and was already descending. The Shaido stayed where they were. _Vron'cor_ paused. "You are coming?"

"We should not remain beneath the Roof of your Hold, _Vron'cor_."

"You should not? But is not really _my_ hold, it is more Father's hold... and besides, it is not really a-"

"The Hold of your father is _your_ Hold, _Vron'cor_."

"Is it? I mean, it is?"

"Come along, Naythan Gaidin!"

"Be careful Mistress, there might be dangers down there... I am just coming..."

Cohradin addressed the others. "_Algai'd'siswai_ of Wet Sands – we must await leave to properly come beneath _Vron'cor's_ father-Roof!" As one, the Shaido rose and ran back up the ramp, Cohradin following.

"I will bring you some food if I find some!" _Vron'cor_ shouted after them.

* * *

><p>Naythan watched the Aiel go, shaking his head slightly, then turned to Ellyth, lingering further down the narrow steps. When he spoke, his voice sounded odd, not his usual tones, clear and high... it strongly reminded her of something... "<em>Aes Sedai, we will go now to the basement-cellar of the keep-hold of my Father-roof<em>." He was impersonating an Aiel! He had put on a sort of blank, Aiel face as well, she noted...

"We shall if you cease attempting to sound like an Aielman _forthwith_, Naythan Gaidin!"

"_But there may be good things to eat down there, Aes Sedai, a creamy snack with which we may Dance the Spoons with much Honour!_"

"Ahh! _Six_ Aiel are _more_ than enough, thank-you!"

Though it _was_ quite amusing, the Aiel voice, she could not help but smile, he was a natural mimic... well, so long as he did not mimic _her_...

Ellyth resumed her descent of the narrow steps, Naythan following close behind, practically stepping on her heels, clearly itching to push past, for all that there was not room enough. The stairs ended, leading out into a large, semi-circular antechamber with several archways lining the curved wall before them. More _cuendillar_, the entirety of this underground place seemed to be made of it, hard enough though that was to believe. Ellyth glanced about, cautiously. "I do hope that 'golem-creature' is not lurking down here..." she murmured.

Ellyth was still not entirely sure what it was, this 'golem,' but from what little Naythan had imparted to her, was certain that she did not wish to encounter one. They stood as immune to channelling as _he_ did, apparently, but she held on to the Source even so, tying-off the weave of the _saidar_-light, which faded a little, and preparing some nasty, fiery surprises, just in case. It was comforting to do so.

Ellyth glanced at Naythan. His eyes were lowered to the odd weapon he had scorned in favour of his beloved sword, or the destructive tubular device that remained rolled-up in one of the Aielmen's blankets, with their other things above. He had told her that the tube was a 'lightning-lance...' and she _yet_ sought reassurance with regard to a certain rather dangerous Shadow-wrought creature that had seemingly escaped its prison! "_Naythan?_" He raised his eyes, face grim.

Ellyth flinched, uttering a small cry of alarm.

"Sorry Mistress!"

"That is... perfectly alright, Naythan Gaidin..." Ellyth responded, a little faintly, "why, I had quite forgot the way your eyes glow in the dark, in that fashion... um... the _golem?_"

Naythan shook his head as he led the way through the centre arch, wider than the others. "_Gholam_. No, Mistress, it is gone, I would know if it was here..."

"How?"

Naythan held up the strange, silver blade. It was narrow and thin, did not look very sharp along the edge, seemed more designed for stabbing. "If there was _Gholam_ about, this blade would be shining. It is not here, or anywhere near." He sounded somewhat relieved, in fact... and that look in his eyes, up above, when he had raised them from the empty _ter'angreal_-box... she had thought for an instant, that she might have seen _fear_ there... and in a way, that was the most frightening thing of all.

The arch opened out into a large, circular chamber, a mosaic on the floor depicting the symbol of the Aes Sedai. There were more of those crystal hemispheres set into the wall, that seemed to illuminate when you moved near to them... they flickered to life, the pale light shimmering off several strange objects that lined the walls of the chamber; a crystalline statue of a dancing woman – a _nude_ dancing woman, at that... a dark, stone pyramid, standing head-high, a plethora of what looked like mathematical symbols covering its every surface... an array of glass tubes, growing from a marble plinth... and Ellyth's Talent woke to an alarming extent.

"There are... seventeen _ter'angreal_ in this room," she stated, definitively.

"Yes Mistress, at least that. Know what it is they do?"

Ellyth scowled. "I do not." She eyed Naythan coolly. Why did he have to ask her _that?_ "At least I know what they are!" He blinked, then nodded encouragingly, with perhaps a hint of condescension. "And I know how many of them there might be," she muttered, "even if I have no idea as to their purpose..."

"That is alright, Mistress, 'tis a good Talent that you have! Useful!" Reassuring her as though she were a sulky child!

"What know _you_ of Talents, Naythan Gaidin?" Ellyth snapped, "I do not recall ever seeing you wearing novice-white in one of my classes!" She was _not_ sulking... just because her accursed excuse-for-a-Talent was not particularly _specific_... well, it had at least served to find the Crystal _ter'angreal_ that led her to him, had it not?

"I do not know what most of the _ter'angreal_ do either..." Naythan was adding, in placatory tones "...except for the Messenger and the Tabulator, of course..." his gaze moved past the array of glass tubes and focused on a slightly convex crystal oval set against the wall "...as well as – ha! There it is! Cannot believe Father kept!" Enthusiastically, he went over and wiped the accumulation of dust from its surface.

"What is it?" Ellyth enquired reluctantly, joining him. "What does it do?"

"Portrait-_ter'angreal!_ Preserves unhappy memories! Seems to have died... you could Channel slender web of Spirit-Power into it, Mistress?"

"What is a- oh, I suppose that you mean a thin thread of Spirit, yes?"

"If you say so..."

Ellyth frowned as she embraced _saidar_. "I am trusting that you know of which you speak, Naythan Gaidin... I should not care to have this untested object of the One Power..." Naythan was looking at her "...that is to say, should there be unforeseen consequences..." he blinked "or... oh, curse-it!" She channelled. The oval of crystal glowed, an image flickering to life on its surface – and she found herself staring at an old man draped in dark, velvet robes, sitting in an ornate chair of what was unmistakeably sung-wood, a younger man standing to either side of him. The portrait was incredibly detailed and lifelike, had a strange depth to it... moving her head, she fancied she could see the figures almost in profile... and one of the three people in the _ter'angreal_ picture, or whatever it was, was clearly Naythan.

A younger Naythan, slighter in build, his chest less broad, but clearly him. He looked rather smart, was wearing an oddly-cut dark coat with lace at the neck, matching trews tucked into high knee-boots, his hands behind his back... his hair was much longer, a white mane that fell past his shoulders, covering his ears... he had that small half-smile on his lips that she had become all-too accustomed to. There was a silk badge on the front of his coat, over his heart – it depicted the same blue triangle symbol that was tattooed on his chest.

The old man in the chair was _very_ singular in appearance, she thought, with honey-coloured skin and dark, mesmeric eyes, somewhat almond-shaped... long-fingered hands resting on the arms of the chair... a bald skull, and strange, pale, twisted moustaches trailing down to either side of his thin-lipped mouth. A small, blunt-pointed dagger with a horn hilt was incongruously hung about his neck on a silken cord, resting against his narrow, velvet-swathed chest. His demeanour was such that he seemed to exude a sense of great mystery... of great wisdom... no, perhaps not wisdom, but _knowledge_... the two things were different... and also, she imagined, an arrogance that was equally great. Ellyth knew that she was looking at 'Father.' The Aes Sedai who somehow created Naythan and fostered him, taught him to be a weapon against the Shadow... the madman, who brought the Crystal to the _stedding_ and, for better or worse, began this whole chain of events.

And standing beside the chair... Ellyth likewise knew that she was looking at Naythan's brother... the _other_ brother. He was a good deal taller than Naythan, whip-slim, clad in the same dark, well-cut garments, the same lace at his throat. The badge over _his_ heart seemed to depict a green double-circle, like a slim figure-eight, but was harder to make out as he had his arms rigidly crossed. His skin was much paler than Naythan's, the long, white hair sweeping back from his brow coarser... a gaunt, determined face, the mouth set in the grim approximation of a smile. There was something extremely formidable about him, as with his older brother whose statue loomed above... though in a different way. A more... _terrible_ way, she imagined. Strangely, a thin white scarf was bound about his brow, over where his eyes would be. Was he blind? And his rather harsh features, they were oddly _familiar_... she had seen that face before, she was sure of it. How could that be?

"That is... your father... and your other brother, Naythan?"

"Yes, Mistress. Father and Middle Brother. A very nice family portrait!" Naythan made that odd mewling sound in the back of his throat.

"Your middle brother... you mentioned that he was also a Hero..."

"Hero of the Light, Mistress, indeed he was."

"Why does he wear that scarf over his eyes? Was he injured?"

Naythan did not answer straight-away, confining himself to eyeing her cautiously. "You are sure you want to know, Mistress?" he enquired, softly.

Ellyth held his gaze for a long moment, then glanced back at the portrait... and it struck her. But for the colour of the hair, pure white instead of the lank black more usually seen... it was quite clear who – _what_ – this brother of Naythan's resembled... she shuddered slightly. "I think I understand now, why he wore the... the scarf..."

"Do not think ill of Middle Brother, Mistress... he was a good man. Well, was not a man anymore than _me_... but he had a good heart. Miss him, I do..." Naythan sighed gustily, then grinned. "Mind you – Taw could be a _nightmare_ when he was in a bad mood, angry with the Shadow about something! Had quite a temper, did he!"

"I can imagine..." To Ellyth's embarrassment, her stomach growled. Well, it had been a while since breakfast (hare) and there had been just the _one_ meal the day before (also hare) so; "...you mentioned that there might be something to _eat_ here?"

"Yes Mistress, emergency supplies with Keeping spun on them, should still be fresh, even after all this time... I will fetch Shaidos, then go and see."

In Naythan's absence, a thick shroud of silence settled upon the ancient, mysterious chamber. Ellyth gazed on the singular portrait a while longer, then examined some more of the artefacts, wondering what they did. Well,_ wishing_ she knew, at least! When she turned around, a ghost was looking at her.

* * *

><p>It was raining heavily up top and N'aethan was impatiently trying to get Cohradin to explain to him what a 'Roofmistress' was, and why he thought it necessary that one invite the Shaido into his 'hold' (especially since it was <em>wet<em> outside) but when he heard Ellythia Sedai scream, he took the stairs five at a time, leapt over the side of the ramp, landing and rolling, and threw himself down into the Catacombs. Though the _Gholam_ was long-gone by the looks of it, he was cursing himself for leaving his Aes Sedai alone, there were probably all sorts of dangerous things down there that he did not even know about... if she was hurt, or... or worse, he would never forgive himself! _Never!_

He had been expecting something bad when he burst into the Core Chamber, so was greatly relieved to see Ellythia Sedai alive and unharmed... why had she screamed so loudly? His Aes Sedai was backed against the wall, a small fist pressed to her mouth in horror, dark eyes wide and staring at... at... well, it was only a glimmer-message that Father had left behind, by the looks of it. The shining tubes of the Messenger were glowing a bit, the valves still warming-up, perhaps they had activated when the glowbulbs came on? Sometimes they were keyed to do that...

Ellythia Sedai was trembling, terrified... what was wrong with her? She looked like she had seen a ghost!

* * *

><p>Ellyth had never told anyone, not even Renn and certainly not <em>Shrina<em>, who would doubtless have laughed herself sick, but she had always been rather superstitious concerning the unquiet spirits of the dead... if such even existed. Though of course, they did not. And yet... they _might_... the thought of grim spectres haunting the living had always made her feel distinctly nervous. She had never seen a ghost, and certainly did not wish to, but had spoken with plenty of Aes Sedai and (prior to her banishment to the White Tower) Children of the Light, who claimed that they had. She knew that such apparitions could not harm her – if they existed at all – but even so…

The Manor House in which she had grown up had been a rather old, creaky edifice, home to many generations of Desiamas... several of whom had come to rather violent ends, sometimes within the walls themselves. As a girl, Ellyth often had difficulty getting to sleep unless a candle was left burning beside her bed... a cheap, tallow candle that made her eyes water, at that, for Lord Guye (whilst a wonderful father in many ways) had a strongly parsimonious bent. Her younger brother – the wretched little hound! – had once dressed up in some old clothes that he had found in a chest in the attic, drenched himself liberally with flour from the kitchens and paid a midnight visit to her bedroom, pretending to be the tormented shade of Lord Thadeus, an ancestor of theirs who had suffered a particularly grisly demise.

Even the subsequent chastisement Thaeus received had not made up for the sheer fright he had given her, when he came lurching around the open door, groaning and clanking that bloody chain! And Ellyth suspected that father had birched the little beast in the morning – whilst she watched with righteous indignation and satisfaction! – as much for squandering the _flour_ as for scaring his sister witless! Thaeus had later smugly told her that it had been 'worth it.' _Brothers!_

Rashiel had _also_ delighted in tormenting her fellow novice, gloatingly telling Ellyth of the ghoulish spectre of an Accepted that lurked on the top floor of the Tower in the small hours, the blood-drenched wight of a girl named Echiko who had thrown herself from the roof, believing that she could fly... yes, the thought of spectral apparitions was something that had continued to trouble her, even _after_ she had won the Shawl...

As such, when Ellyth turned and saw the pale and insubstantial ghost, her immediate reaction was both loud and piercing... and, which was worse, she _recognised_ the spirit! It was the old man – Naythan's father! The male Aes Sedai, the madman! He _knew_ that she had disturbed his grave, in the _stedding_ up in Arafel – he had come to haunt her! He was standing there, gazing upon her with those dark, tilted eyes, hands folded in his sleeves – she could see the bloody _wall_ through him! – smiling an odd smile. Why did he not _say_ something? _Do_ something?

Ellyth had embraced _saidar_ and prepared weaves of Fire without thinking, her habitual response to perceived danger... but she let the flows dissipate, feeling foolish. One could not set a _ghost_ aflame! And besides, she had no right, she was the intruder here, this was not _her_ mysterious chamber stuffed full of _ter'angreal_, but '_Father's!_'

Naythan leapt into the room, blade bared, coming to a sudden halt. Ellyth raised a trembling finger, pointing. "Naythan, it is your _father_... returned from the dead!"

* * *

><p>Whilst sheathing his sword, N'aethan tried very hard not to grin, barely succeeding... Ellythia Sedai... she thought Father's glimmer-message was his <em>spirit!<em> His shade! _Priceless!_ Should he tell her? Well _of course_ he should tell her... he _would_ tell her... but not just yet... in a while... it was all too much fun!

Father's message initiated – his projected image withdrew transparent hands from barely more opaque sleeves and began to speak in one of the private languages that he had often employed with N'aethan, which he himself had later used with Latra Sedai. But while his sharp ears listened intently, N'aethan's strange eyes stayed firmly focused on the fingers of Father's right hand, which were otherwise engaged in surreptitiously tapping out a complex pattern against his leg.

* * *

><p>Ellyth flinched as the ghost began to speak, a melodic string of vowels and fricatives that did not sound at all like the Old Tongue, issuing from between his thin lips, echoing against the curved dome of the chamber... she tore her gaze away from the dread apparition, staring at Naythan in consternation. He smiled reassuringly, without taking his eyes from the shade of his departed father, and supplied the translation;<p>

"Father greets us. He speaks in the Dead Tongue, Mistress."

"_Well of course he does_ – he is _dead!_"

"No Mistress, _Mino'tan_ – ancient speech, not known by all..."

The ghost spoke further, in that liquid, fluid language.

"What... what does he say? Is he angry with me for-"

"He asks if I have you with me, Mistress, the one who awakened me…"

"What, can he not _see_ me?"

The ghost had fallen silent, seemed to be waiting for something. Naythan grinned, and called-out a brief string of words in that same odd speech.

"Mistress, I say; 'yes Father, she is here.' " The ghost seemed to flicker a little, then resumed its address. "Father says he speaks to _you_ now, Mistress, he calls you 'Finder-of-the-Key.' " The ghost gestured eloquently with one hand, the other seemingly occupied with scratching its leg, saying something else. "He names you 'Daughter of Children…' he names you 'Adept of the Tower that is White…' " The next sentence contained two words that even Ellyth could understand.

"He calls you _Aes Sedai_… Father respectfully requires that you come to stand before him, there is something that he wishes to do…" The ghost folded its hands back into those capacious sleeves and stood, waiting.

Ellyth approached the spectre reluctantly and hesitantly, defeating the urge to flee in terror – but only just. And then, slowly, with grace and deliberation, the ghost _bowed_ to her! When the apparition straightened, that thin-lipped mouth moved one last time between those peculiar, twisted strands of hair, uttering a short phrase… then, the ghost's smile seemed to become sad for a moment, and its pale, transparent body shimmered, then disappeared. Thank goodness for that! Ellyth sincerely hoped that it would not come back, to haunt her further. Besides, it was not _fair_ – it had been _Shrina_ who would not put the skull down and kept making jests, whereas _she_ had behaved perfectly respectfully toward the ancient Aes Sedai's remains! Then, she recalled that final remark...

"Naythan Gaidin... what was the last comment that the ghost... that the shade of your father made?"

For a moment, Naythan seemed to mirror his father's melancholy smile, before he shrugged. "Father said he hopes that you are wiser than _he_, Mistress."

* * *

><p><strong>Part III: <strong>_**Tel'aran'rhiod**_

In an underground chamber hollowed within a Tomb that was not a tomb, hidden deep beneath the surface of a towering, granite sea-mount, N'aethan lay curled in a ball, fast asleep at the foot of an ornate couch, sword cradled carefully in his arms. But at the same time, N'aethan stood on a low hill overlooking an endless sea of green, swaying grass, growing almost head-high and disappearing toward the horizon in every direction. He wondered if there was anything to hunt down there... he thought he had seen some wolves chasing a deer earlier, though they had not seen him. It had probably not been a _real_ deer, anyway. Wolves... he had never much cared for the creatures, but they had been allies against the Shadow in their own way, so it was well to know that they still visited the Dream. Where was this place?

N'aethan had explored the big misty mountain range before fording a few rivers and coming to an expanse of flat grasslands... he thought this might be where the eastern stretch of Jeren's Sea had once lapped at the silver stones of the Hakyri Sound, but was not sure. Probably not, though... He did not really recognise any of this terrain, though there had been the broken remnants of ancient architecture dotted about, up in those mountains, some of which he had thought looked familiar. A vast swathe of rock, melted and turned to glass, the remnants of some ancient City, destroyed with Fire perhaps... but he did not think that it was the ruins of Tzora, it was too far south. And as for Paaran Disen... well, there now appeared to be an enormous lake where the greatest City in the world had once stood.

N'aethan had been looking forward to sleeping all day, not because he was tired (though he was) for he could stay awake for a whole week if need be... if perhaps not one of these Third Age weeks, that seemed to have somehow become three days longer than the ones he was accustomed to. It would soon be a whole week since they came to the Tomb... nine days, so far. No, he anticipated closing his eyes and letting his consciousness drift for another reason. While his body slept and rested, the rest of him would go to his special place. He had been going there ever since he was a boy...

In any case, it was the first time since N'aethan had been let out of the Stasis-Box that he was going to sleep properly, fully submerging himself in somnambulism... in order that he might go to the Dream Place. It had been different out there in the world, or where it ended at least... it had been too dangerous to sleep properly, he had simply taken a nap here and there, his ears alert for danger even while his eyes were closed and his mind resting, ready to wake at a moment's notice. _That_ sort of sleeping was no good for visiting the Dream Place, for that you needed to be _way_ under. Here, in the Tomb, there were Shaido Aiel guarding the roof and no other way in, so he thought that he could risk it. It would be well to take a look around out there, in any case, but he was also doing it because he enjoyed it, and besides, he wanted to go and see Someshta.

The Dream Place was his special place, the place his Brothers had not been able to visit, the place he had never told Father about... though he suspected Father had known, there had been very little that the ancient Aes Sedai did _not_ know... but it had been his secret playground, the Dream Place, and he had wanted to keep it to himself. A little selfish of him, perhaps, but he was allowed to be selfish about just _one_ thing, was he not? As a child, he had wondered if being able to walk the Dream was a gift from the Creator... though it was more likely a part of his Design. Father had never mentioned it, if it was. But it made sense – so that he could better protect his Aes Sedai, or whoever else he was set to ward... not all assassins came in through the window, or hid under the bed... some attacked their target in dreams. N'aethan knew that a _Gholam_ might not walk so freely here as _he_ did, but there were other killers of the Shadow who could. One of whom, it would seem, he had already _met _that very night!

_When N'aethan arrived in Tel'aran'rhiod, the first thing he always did was to look at his hands. Two neat, smooth hands with clean, well-manicured fingernails. Then he looked down at his feet. Neat smooth feet, present. Well-pedicured toenails. Present. That was the best thing about the Dream World – you could be anything that you wanted to be, here. You could even be normal. _

_(Though he always left his eyes the same colour. And his ears at least a bit pointy – though not hairy! Never that! To do otherwise would have felt like cheating...)_

_N'aethan concentrated and the empty chamber around him flickered and vanished, replaced by the top of the Tomb, overlooking the ocean. For a moment, he concentrated again, and the waves disappeared, replaced by rolling hills and fields, broken here and there with the pale dome of a farmstead or the fluted spire of a standing-flow conductor... a grove of chora-trees, circling a broad hill-top... it looked very peaceful, the Rorn M'doi did. Oh well, all gone now. The hills and fields became roiling grey waves topped with white foam, once more. _

_N'aethan realised that he was standing in the deep shadow of something, and glanced up, smiling. An enormous figure loomed above, a sculpted image of powerful confidence, bereft of axe, hands on hips, the head draped in a bear's skin quite literally lost amidst the clouds. Big Brother's statue was still there in Tel'aran'rhiod, of course, it always was for some reason... N'aethan saluted his Brother's monument smartly, then with a single bound, crossed over to the mainland and went spying._

_N'aethan was counting his ninth Trolloc cook-fire, as uncomfortably close to the cliffs as the rest of them, when he noticed that the bushes were rustling at the approach of something. There were wild animals about, as there often was in the World of Dreams, but he did not think that this was one of them. Too noisy. In fact... N'aethan could detect a hint of something wicked in the air, coming closer. He grinned, and changed his appearance, rippling and shifting, diminishing rapidly in size until a small boy with long white hair and odd cobalt-blue eyes stood in his place, wearing a simple dark vest and knee-length shorts; himself as he had looked when he was only six and the Dragon and the Lady Ilyena Sunhair came to visit... _

_Despite his expectations, N'aethan was somewhat surprised when a little old lady emerged from the bushes, clad in a thick, homespun gown, a woollen shawl draped over her thin shoulders, a wicker basket held in the crook of her arm. She also wore a silver pendant in the shape of a spider's web, strung about her neck on a thin chain. If N'aethan had cared to squint, he would have seen the flow of Spirit she was maintaining to the device, but he did not bother. He knew a Dreamweaver ter'angreal when he saw one. In a way, he sort of _was_ one, wasn't he? Well, he at least had his suspicions about _why_ he was able to come here, to the Dream World... but it would take some sort of drastic surgical procedure to confirm those suspicions! _

_The kindly old lady regarded the little boy, her small, black eyes twinkling. _

"_Goodness, a child! Hello, my sweet... here all on your own? Have you lost your mummy, my poppet?" Her voice sounded warm and... grandmotherly. _

"_Yes..." said N'aethan sadly, and sniffed a bit._

"_Poor dear... well, I expect that you shall find your way back to her... or are you lost?"_

"_Lost..." N'aethan agreed, and sniffled some more, looking up at the old lady as she approached. She held out her basket. _

"_Poor little mite! Breaks my heart, it does... would you like an apple, deary?"_

_N'aethan looked at the shiny red apples in the basket and then smiled up at the old lady, baring his teeth a bit. He had left them as pointy as his ears. "No, granny, I would _not_ like an apple... but I would like to ask of you a question?"_

"_And... what question would that be..?" She had lowered the apples and was looking less certain of herself..._

_N'aethan moved a little closer. "My daddy always told me that back when he went there, before the Bore, it was a _beautiful_ island in a _blue_ sea, where the sun was _always_ shining..."_

_The old lady was frowning slightly, her small, black eyes glittering. _

_N'aethan moved even closer, his smile widening... his child-like body shifting and rippling once more, getting bigger, stronger... scarier... the old woman took an involuntary step back, her mouth dropping open. _

"_...but pray tell, little old Shadowsworn lady... what was the weather like when _you_ went to Shayol Ghul?" N'aethan's voice was a low growl by the end of the sentence, his voice distorted by his widening muzzle and distending fangs, fur and whiskers sprouting from his face..._

"_What _are_ you?" snarled the Friend of the Dark, her apples – which he suspected would have been somewhat on the poisoned side – disappearing._

"_Obvious... a nightmare!" And hissing, N'aethan lunged for her. He was fast, and in __t__el'aran'rhiod even faster, but the Shadowsworn was clearly no stranger to the World of Dreams and in a blur of movement managed to raise a hand to her Dreamweaver and flash from existence, just as his blow was connecting with her arm. He still got her good, though, he could smell the blood! But he did not think he had managed to kill her, which was unfortunate. Still, she would likely not be visiting _here_ again, anytime soon... his bestial features shifted back to his customary ones, the fur disappearing and teeth shortening, though it amused him to leave the whiskers there for the time being. He gave them an experimental tug. _

"_Better _not_ come back to World of Dreams, crone, or you will get worse than that," N'aethan muttered, more to himself than to the Friend of the Dark, since she was long gone. Hopefully waking up somewhere in a lot of pain, right now... served her right for trying to trap his Aes Sedai in her webs, or whatever she was up to... _

_N'aethan lingered awhile longer, counting Trolloc fires, which were all arrayed along the cliffs now, he noted with some concern, but eventually decided that he had done all he could do in the way of scouting enemy movements, so decided to take a look at this strange, broken world he had woken up in. A series of bounds took him to a dark forest in the south, more took him east over a great lake to a mountain range, shrouded in mist, grasslands lying beyond, and so it went..._

When N'aethan had tired of looking at the vast plain, wondering idly what had been there in his day, he decided to go and visit Someshta. Besides, he could distantly sense several other visitors to _Shayol Ghul_ within the Dream, the Forsaken doubtless, which was worrying... what were they up to? Well, he had better make himself scarce before they decided to come and see what _he_ was up to... Lanfear especially. She had been very beautiful and very evil and not entirely sane, as far as he could tell, and it had been an oddly interesting experience meeting her, all those many years ago... but an experience he had no wish to repeat! _That_ had certainly used up one of his lives! Fortunately, there were places in the World of Dreams where even the Forsaken dared not go... and the Grove was definitely one of them.

_Tel'aran'rhiod_ moved around him again, as N'aethan visualised a certain, special place, to which he had an open invitation... and then he was there. The Grove. Trees of all kinds rose around him, each different, each a more beautiful example of tree-kind than the last; majestic oaks, tall firs, spreading chestnuts, silver birches and golden maples, _chora_-trees as well, of course, and towering over all, the Great Trees themselves. Wildflowers clustered thickly about their wide boles and birds sang sweetly on their boughs. It was always summer here, and the air was full of butterflies.

N'aethan inhaled slowly, taking in the myriad scents of blossom and petal, and then sneezed. He thought he could detect a hint of catnip in the air, but instead of going to look for it, made his way toward the centre of the Grove instead, whistling softly to himself. It was nice to be back. A green clearing opened up beyond the trees, a single mighty oak growing from the centre. The heart of the Grove.

Someshta was there, though not alone, so N'aethan did not go straight over to talk to him, but lingered in the shadows beneath the trees instead... it would not have been polite to interrupt, since the Nym was already conversing with someone else. He often saw other people here, but no one ever acknowledged him. Besides, it was the Oak Man who Someshta was speaking to... that strange friend of his who was bound to one of the Horns, he believed – the bronze one probably, since he didn't look much like a Hero or a Poet – so N'aethan gazed politely down at his bare feet. It was thought rude to stare at they who served the Pattern, if you saw them in _Tel'aran'rhiod_.

In fact, if you _did_ glimpse one of those bound to a Horn, spun-out time and again by the Great Wheel, then it was considered mannerly to pretend that you had not. Deindre Sedai had told N'aethan this, when he was a young lad and was still called 'Tro.' It was about the most she ever said to him, come to think of it, it was rare to hear that dreamy, breathy voice of hers produce more than a sentence at a time. Usually an extremely confusing sentence about something that might or might not happen in the far distant future... but she had been kind to him, Deindre Sedai had, in her rather vague way, and taught him one or two useful things about _Tel'aran'rhiod_ when they infrequently met here. Did Aes Sedai still come to the Dream Place?

N'aethan continued to think of it as 'the Dream Place' even after he found out what it was supposed to be called. Apart from anything else, it was easier to say! Were they done yet? He risked a quick glance; yes, they had risen now and seemed to be saying their goodbyes, the tall Nym towering over the bearded, craggy-featured individual clad in the odd brown robe, a bronze sickle tucked through its rope belt... penetrating, obsidian eyes flicked toward him momentarily, so N'aethan glanced back down at his feet. When he looked up again, the Oak Man was gone and Someshta was striding toward him, a green, growing giant, emerald and sapphire hued butterflies trailing in his wake like a scintillating, living cloak. N'aethan stepped out from the trees to meet him, enjoying the sensation of lush grass between his toes.

"Hello, Someshta."

The great Nym held out his long arms, his hazelnut eyes twinkling, the living vines and leaves that formed his face writhing upwards in a broad smile. His deep voice boomed;

"_Blackthorn!_ It has been _long_ since you came to my forest... what are those things on your face?"

"Whiskers! I had forgot I had them... _oof!_"

After Someshta had put him down, releasing him from his somewhat verdant and undeniably rib-cracking embrace, N'aethan smiled up at his friend whilst he made the foolish whiskers disappear. No wonder the Oak Man had been giving him funny looks! Since Someshta spoke in the Low, vulgar speech, he decided to as well. He had been looking forward to speaking the High properly, for a while, but there it was.

"So the Aes Sedai was correct – you are _not _dead!" Someshta rumbled, looking down at him with satisfaction, as though N'aethan were some kind of plant that was sprouting well!

"Not yet I am not! It is good to see you again, Someshta, you look well... what Aes Sedai was it who..." N'aethan stared. "Your wound!" he exclaimed, pleased to note that the brown, withered fissure in the vines that made up Someshta's head and face was gone. "Did it heal up, like mine always do?"

N'aethan had always hoped that it would... he had only met Someshta once in the waking world and it had not been a pleasant experience, though it should have been. Someshta had not seemed to know who he was... It was different in the Dream Place, Someshta had always been whole here, in full possession of his faculties... N'aethan did not really understand it, but the Nym existed in both the Wheel World and the World of Dreams at the same time, somehow, though he did not know how... there was much of _Tel'aran'rhiod_ that he did not know. Once, in Paaran Disen, he had attempted to conduct some relevant research at the Library of the Servants, but was chased away... he tried to sneak back in later, through a window this time, but the Lore Ajah Sisters were still there and chased him out again – just because he did not happen to be an Aes Sedai and did not happen to have a library-card! They were fiercely protective of their esoteric knowledge, those Lore-Sisters...

Someshta shook his unmarred head gravely. "It did not heal, Blackthorn. My memories when not in this place remained fleeting until the very end..." he shrugged his massive green shoulders, an oddly human gesture "...and now my corporeal form exists no more, though it did up until a brief time ago, for I was charged with a final task by Solinda Aes Sedai. A task fulfilled."

"Solinda Sedai! She gave me a task or two in her time... a hard woman to refuse, was she!" N'aethan scowled, thinking about one of those tasks. It had been very difficult, sneaking into _that_ place to steal the book of Dark Prophecy for Solinda Aes Sedai, and those odd-looking Librarians-of-the-Shadow had been most displeased by the theft of one of their tomes... they had set those unusual Darkhounds on him, the ones that were much tougher than ordinary Shadowdogs and kept coming alive again after he killed them, reassembling their torn and broken bodies, no matter how much he sliced them up... he had just had to opt for running away in the end, it shamed him to recall... the bloody things had chased him for _miles_...

"You speak the truth, Blackthorn. Solinda Sedai died at the Great Eye, as did all of them, the Aes Sedai who made the Eye of the World... they sacrificed themselves for the Pattern, for the future. I buried them, in my forest-garden, each interred beneath a different tree. I sang the Tree-songs for them all."

"I am sorry to hear that... sorry to hear about you also, Someshta, not existing in the World of the Wheel anymore, I mean... it might have been nice to go and visit you there, at this eye-place, whatever that was..."

"Oh, many did over the years, my little Brothers-to-the-Trees came to see me from time to time, some human adventurers also, a pair of twin brothers I particularly recall, they finished each other's sentences... the humans always called me 'the Green Man' you know... they seemed to regard the finding of the Great Eye as a sort of challenge, a trial of bravery... a hero's quest. Odd. They are strange creatures, these humans!"

"They are indeed!" N'aethan agreed, fervently.

"And Moiraine Sedai came twice, of course, most unusual... But the memories are fleeting, it was not a good time for me, keeping the Blight at bay and guarding that which had been put into my charge, it was not what I was made for. Glad I was, to set down my burden and return fully to this place."

Someshta lowered his tall shape to the grass and sat cross-legged, gratifying N'aethan, since he had been developing a nasty crick in the back of his neck. He remained standing for the time being, which meant that the Nym did not loom over him quite so much.

"Mwurain Sedai? Who is she, Someshta? Is she the Aes Sedai who told you I was still alive? How did she know?"

"No, it was not her Blackthorn, but the other one... she who walked the Dream and came to the Grove a very long time ago, to enquire after you, then came again to see me, a time later, travelling to the Eye itself on that occasion... I forget her name... I have always had trouble remembering human names, even before I took the wound... they are so _short_, they can barely even be considered names at all..."

Someshta had felt this way about 'Tro' N'aethan recalled, always calling him 'Blackthorn' in stead, _Chai'doon_ in the High, a name which had never taken him very long to say in a human language, but a good thirty chimes to recite in the ridiculously convoluted and long-winded tongue of the Nym...

"Please try to remember, Someshta! I know it has been a long time, but..."

"Hmm... why, it was the very same young Aes Sedai who accompanied _you_ here once, Blackthorn, the Sister who could fly, with whom you argued a great deal!"

"Oh, _Kiam_ came to the Grove? What did she want?"

"She sought you, calling you 'Lightborn' and complaining of your absence... I relayed to her what you told me when you came to say your farewells, that you had been summoned by your Father... this seemed to anger her, and she departed. Though she returned to speak to me a time later, about another matter, braving the Blight and travelling with her Warder to the Great Eye itself – she looked older, I recall – and she informed me that you were still alive... in fact, she asked me to tell you something, should I encounter you again. I thought it unlikely... but here you are, Blackthorn!"

"Here I am. What did Kiam Sedai want you to tell me, Someshta?"

"Oh, that a message from her would be awaiting you in the White Tower."

"Huh. Just Kiam getting the last word, I would expect! _Always_ had to have the last word, did she!"

N'aethan sat upon the lawn with Someshta awhile, enjoying the sunshine and speaking of many things, of old times that would never come again... he also told the Nym about some of what he was doing at the moment.

"So you were in stasis?" exclaimed Someshta. "When I did not see you in the Dream for a very long time, I feared that you had shared the fate of your Brothers... and now you are at the Tomb of the Firstborn? I saw it once, the large statue, when our Circuit passed through the _Rorn M'doi_... and you travel with some Children of the Dragon, and are serving an Aes Sedai? You are her Warder, as they call it now... one 'Helathia' of the same Ajah as Moiraine Sedai... I will try to remember that name. Well, that _was_ always your first concern, Blackthorn. I was made for the seed-singing and to tend my forests, and it always pleased me best to do so... whereas _you_..."

"I am doing what I was made to do as well," N'aethan agreed, "which pleases me also."

"Well, if you are happy, then I am happy!" laughed the Green Man, his butterflies lifting from his shoulders and swirling about him at the deep, booming noise. N'aethan joined-in, it was good to be back here, laughing with Someshta again. And Kiam had come looking for him after he disappeared? _That _was why she had been following him... what had she wanted? To enmesh him in another scheme of hers, no-doubt, like the time they had gone to the forbidden _Collam_ and he had found out certain things that he would rather not have known... he wondered what her message said? Something rude, doubtless. Perhaps he would find out, one day, if his Aes Sedai and he ever managed to return to this White Tower. But he could not stay forever, and seeing the Oak Man had set him to thinking about certain aspects of _Tel'aran'rhiod_, so before he departed the Grove, N'aethan could not help but ask;

"Someshta... have you ever encountered either of my Brothers in this place? Not the Grove so much, neither of them cared overmuch for nature, Middle Brother especially... I just meant in the Dream World at large, perhaps you might have seen Wan or Taw amongst the other Heroes who wait in this place for the Wheel to spin them out again?" They certainly _deserved_ to be of their number...

Someshta shook his green head slowly, his hazelnut eyes taking on a sad cast. "I regret that I have not seen either of the elder Lightborn here, Blackthorn."

"Oh... well, I just wanted to ask, anyway..."

"I am sure that their Threads have been spun-out once more."

"Yes..." N'aethan smiled sadly. "It would be nice to think so, at least..."

* * *

><p>Ellyth awoke to the sound of a pleasant baritone, raised in melodic song, though singing in a language quite unfamiliar to her... she blinked in confusion, sitting up and yawning delicately behind her hand, then swung her legs over the side of the ornate couch upon which she had slept – an entire couch, made of sung-wood! It had been much more common in Naythan's day, apparently. Like the chair the old man had sat in for the odd portrait, that was here also... as were other items of ancient furniture, down in the store-rooms. Naythan's father had squirreled-away all sorts of interesting things. And then, there were more of those 'boxes-that-stopped-time' down there also, the strange <em>ter'angreal<em> that seemed to have been used for a great many things in the Age of Legends... smaller ones that did not contain people, presumably. Naythan had opened one, but the rest were still there, containing who knew what? The ancient Aes Sedai had certainly hidden a great many things below this 'Tomb.'

Naythan's father... Ellyth frowned, recalling a conundrum that had puzzled her for several days now... 'Father' had somehow known that she was – paradoxically enough – a daughter of the Children of Light, an organisation not formed for another two and one-half millennia, _and_ of the White Tower, which had yet to be even founded in his day... how did he know of her? What else had he known? The message yet confused her...

Ellyth scowled. The _message_... she was _still_ annoyed about that! Why could Naythan not just have _told her_ that it was a strange missive of the Age of Legends, where one saw, as if in some illusion, some Mirror of the Mists, the very person who had sent it! She had thought it a _ghost_, and had doubtless made an enormous fool of herself! _Naythan!_ His subsequent 'did not wish to interrupt Father's words, not polite, so to do!' explanation did _not_ fool her – he had no doubt been thoroughly enjoying the spectacle she had made...

Provokingly, the Aiel had not been remotely bothered by the apparition – no, the _message_, curse it! – which they had arrived just in time to see disappear, Cohradin had told her that they had seen similar 'ghosts' loitering about the Age of Legends spire that grew from one of the Black Hills. They had been dancing with each other, apparently, which sounded odd. It was disappointing also, in a way, as well as extremely aggravating – when Ellyth had seen the 'spirit,' then amidst her undoubted disquiet, she had at least felt relief at finally knowing that ghosts _did_ exist – now she would be left to wonder again... to worry...

Also, she had naturally been unsurprised that the apparition knew that she had found the Crystal in the _stedding_, that she was a daughter of the Children of Light and had subsequently gone to – well, been _banished_ to – the White Tower... for the shades of the dead knew much of the world of the living, most agreed upon this. But _then_, she found out that it had _not_ been a ghost, and in addition to anger – only heightened by Naythan's ridiculous 'innocent' expression! – she had felt confusion.

'Father went to see the snakes and they told him things,' was Naythan's entirely inadequate explanation of the ancient Aes Sedai's disquieting knowledge of her... this, along with a rambling exposition of why one should not go inside one of those red _ter'angreal_-doors as the evil-smelling creatures of the realms were inhospitable and full of malice... well, _this_ did little to alleviate either confusion _or_ ignorance. What nonsense! Walking through enchanted doorways to speak to the Finn-folk, did he think that his father was _Bili beneath the Hill?_ When she put this to him, Naythan had grinned, shaken his head and muttered something about his _uncle_ and not his father... then mentioned someone called 'Gwilim Sedai' who was 'tricked by the foxes.' What in the Wheel had he meant by _that?_

Ellyth shook her head, pushed her feet into her dilapidated slippers, rose from the couch and stretched. A grey gown was draped over a straight-backed chair – also sung-wood – and she slipped it over her shoulders, tying the belt loosely. It was made of some strange, slick fabric that did not seem to stain, one of the Age of Legends garments that had been left here. Naythan had told her that such robes were usually worn by apprentice Aes Sedai, but she did not mind. So long as she never had to wear one of those accursed white dresses again...

Another burst of the strange singing echoed through the archway... it did not sound like the Old Tongue... was it one of the Aielmen? They were said to sing songs to their dead, and dear Atual had mentioned that they sang of the 'washing of spears' when they attacked in force... perhaps it was the large Aielman, Gerom, though she would have thought his voice deeper still, a bass most likely? The song continued, swelling in the halls and chambers of this strange, hidden place... it seemed to be coming from the far end of the odd, curved hallway. Some of the glowing crystals in the various rooms had begun to fade, a few had gone out like spent candles, but in many places, the corridors particularly, the walls seemed to glow with a soft light, whilst myriad specks of colour flickered from somewhere deep within. The floor was very smooth, pale stone, that looked slick but gave a firm grip, even so.

As Ellyth left the sleeping chamber, she noticed Naythan's blanket and fancloth double-cloak folded neatly on the tiled floor at the end of her couch, and sighed... she had _repeatedly_ told him that it was unnecessary for a Warder to sleep at the foot of his Aes Sedai's bed, it was taking the duty of Gaidin a little _too_ far, but he did not seem to have got the message... he often failed to get the bloody message! Though come to think of it, Green Ajah Warders tended to guard their Aes Sedai from beneath the sheets themselves... the Twins certainly always did... a handsome lad decorously arranged to either side of a certain smug young lady! Honestly, even for the Battle Ajah, Shrina was _outrageous!_ Though best not to mention the Greens to Naythan, the next thing she knew, she would find him cuddled-up next to her, stealing the blankets, she expected... or stealing kisses... Ellyth blushed.

The occasional bursts of song grew louder as she made her way down the glowing hall, toward the wash-room at the end, which Naythan called an 'Ablutions Chamber,' whatever that was supposed to be. There were many different rooms in this odd, hidden edifice, and they all had different names, apparently... the round room with all of the _ter'angreal_ inside was the 'Core Chamber.' The other archways to either side of its entrance had proved to contain tunnels and ramps leading further down into the depths of 'Father's secret-place.'

Yes, there was definitely someone in the wash-room, singing soulfully. Ellyth had no idea what the words meant, but they certainly had a haunting quality... she glanced through the open arch cautiously, in case a nude Aielman was lurking within. There was not. Just her odd, Age of Legends Warder... who had probably spent the night pulling the heads off Myrddraal, or perhaps chasing Darkhounds up trees... she knew he had been swimming over to the mainland on most evenings, sneaking off to do... whatever he did, to give the Shadowspawn 'pause' as he put it... Ellyth was concerned that one morning, he would not come swimming back. The object of her concern opened his mouth again, letting forth another tuneful verse in the strange, melodic language.

"_Eh llri set'a ym seo sa gi'saer!_"

It _was_ Naythan singing... he could sing! He was in his shirt-sleeves, leaning toward the mirror set in the wall over the odd wash-stand, which incorporated a deep basin and looked as though it had been somehow grown from a large chunk of crystal. He was trimming the fringe at his brow... his hair had continued to grow at an alarming rate and was starting to fall down over his eyes. He was using the small scissors from her sewing-kit – well, _his_ sewing-kit, she supposed, since she had made him a present of it... he was grooming himself rather fastidiously, by the looks of it. His voice sounded again as he sang another phrase in the musical language.

"_Y'anu ma e sa'ym seo lli'to lles_..." he sniffed, turned slightly, smiled at her over a broad shoulder. 'Snip' went the scissors at the same time. She winced.

"Good morrow, Mistress... forgiveness, awaken you, did I?"

"No, Naythan Gaidin, you did not, it was time to rise in any case..."

Naythan turned back to the mirror – 'snip.' Ellyth frowned. He really wasn't very good at that... "..._ti si lla eh tuao tah d'at sa?_" The words were strange, but oddly beautiful, in a way... the song carried a true, pure note somehow, though a sad one, she suspected.

"What is that ballad you sing? It does not sound like the Old Tongue..."

"No, Mistress, it is in the _song-tongue_... used at the beginning of the Age, it was, for..." 'snip' "...for – hmm, there is not a word for it in the Low, the vulgar speech, mean I... think you would say 'musical-play?' "

"Play? A game?"

"No, an occasion where people in old-fashioned garments 'play' the different parts of the characters in a story... and sing their roles also." 'Snip.'

"Oh, such as is performed in the Foregate of Cairhein... I have heard of this practice, but it seems an ill entertainment compared with a Bard's performance... or a Gleeman's, I would suppose." Ellyth scowled, rubbing at her breast where a certain painted wooden dagger had once left a bruise. "As well as rather silly," she added.

"Bard... this word I know, but..."

"It is a very haunting air, in any case... it sounds sad... melancholy... a young man, pining for his lost love, I would imagine..." Ellyth sighed.

"Not really, Mistress. It is the song of the unhappy cobbler, from the noted 'music-play' of the same name, composed by the infamous Torian Simoone... he is unhappy you see, the cobbler, because the shoes that he makes have become unpopular and the girl he lusts after has chosen to wear the shoes of another cobbler (who is his enemy who he is planning to murder) so he sings of how unhappy he-"

"I think that I get the gist, Naythan Gaidin! I rather wish that you had not told me!" Ellyth shook her head – _lustful cobblers indeed!_ – then eyed Naythan curiously whilst he continued to fumble with the small pair of scissors, which really did not belong in his gloved hands. Odd, he managed with a needle and thread well enough, but when it came to cutting hair... "Why, I did not know that you could sing, Naythan Gaidin. You have a pleasant voice. And you play an instrument also! You might do well to make yourself a patched cloak and tour the villages!"

Naythan blinked, then shrugged, turning back to the mirror. "The Mother taught me to sing," he muttered, "she thought that I should know how to do something other than killing." 'Snip.'

"That was good of her. Civilised, also. Though my father always told me that killing is often necessary, in defence of the Light... but that one should take no pleasure in it, for that leads to the Shadow as surely as terror leads to hatred..."

"True. Sounds like a wise man, Helathia Sedai's father."

"_Ellythia_. And his name is Lord Guye, of House Desiama," Ellyth murmured, pleased by the compliment. Well, father _was_ wise. Except when it came to _household economy_ when, for all of his wealth, he could be extraordinarily penurious!

"Your father is Lord? Then you are _Lady!_" Naythan glanced away from the mirror, grinning.

"I would suppose... as these things are reckoned." Ellyth scowled. "I expect that you will now commence calling me 'Lady Sedai' or something of that ilk, yes?"

"No! Of course not, would not dream of it..." 'snip' "...Milady."

"Aahh! 'Mistress' is _quite_ sufficient!"

Naythan turned away from the mirror and bowed to Ellyth, an odd flourishing bow, such as a Bard might make. "As you command, Mistress." Ellyth curtsied ironically and he laughed softly, that odd noise he made in the back of his throat. "Kings and Queens and Lords and Ladies!" he exclaimed, returning to his hair-cutting "it is all so _feudal_, now!"

'Snip' went the scissors yet again and Ellyth frowned, unable to restrain herself any longer. "You are doing that _very_ unevenly!" she complained, "you need to cut _along_ the lock of hair, not straight across! You will look- oh, just give them to me!" She snatched the scissors from Naythan and turned his face toward her with an authoritative twist of her fingers against his jaw... his skin was surprisingly smooth, there was no stubble on his face, for all that the silky hair on his head seemed to grow extremely rapidly... she did not think that she had seen him shaving, ever.

Naythan blinked at her, then made a grumbling sound when she pulled off the headband and dropped it onto the odd crystalline wash-stand, before mussing his hair and combing it down over his brow with her fingers. He sighed, then closed his large eyes as she commenced cutting. Well, _this_ was something she was good at, for all that she could not sew worth a lick! Though she _could_ sing, after a fashion, but had not done so for many years, not since going to the White Tower. She had sung a great deal as a girl, though...

"What is a Glee Man?" Naythan enquired, "the Shaido speak of them... are they the same as Bards?"

"Not at all, Bards and Gleemen do not tend to get along, that insufferable Gleeman friend of Shrina's became most upset when I mistook _him_ for a Bard, I recall... though he _was_ strutting about that palace in fine clothing that he probably had not yet paid for, plucking at a harp and reciting verses in the High Chant in a rather pompous way, as they often do, so it was a fair assumption to make..."

"So a Gleeman is _not_ a Bard, Mistress?"

"No, a Gleeman is a sort of rural entertainer, though one sees them in the cities a fair bit... usually drinking in taverns, carousing and womanising whilst hard-working folk go about their business!"

"Seems like it is fun, to be Gleeman! More fun than being Warman or Shieldman..."

"Yes, well..." Ellyth frowned, continuing to snip away at those silky locks. "Gleemen used to come to the village sometimes, though father would never invite one to perform at the manor, as he disapproved of them... he did not much care for Bards either, for that matter... no ear for music. Thaeus and I crept down to the Inn one night, though... there was an old Gleeman there, with long white hair and moustaches, bright blue eyes, a Master Gleeman I think he must have been, he played several of my favourite ballads upon his harp and sang very nicely also, whilst my brother and I watched through the window... why, he was better than any Bard!"

"Ah, so a Gleeman _is_ better than a Bard. The Shaido think so, they say that Gleemen eat fire and juggle and make amusing animal shapes out of snake-gizzards, in addition to the singing and reciting. That is good to know, I shall remember this."

"Well, that is not exactly what I meant, Naythan, but... turn your head a little... no the other way..." – a final snip of the scissors – "...there, you may open your eyes now, I have finished. Did you fear that I would accidentally blind you with the scissors?"

"No, Mistress – on purpose!" Naythan turned, looking in the mirror, smoothing his hair down over his brow a little. "You have done good job," he exclaimed, "you can hairdress!"

"A skill of mine own," Ellyth stated smoothly, oddly pleased that he approved of her efforts, "since I was not permitted to take a maid-servant to the Tower, I had to learn to dress my own hair... though back in Amadicia, I had long practiced such arts as a diversion... why, I often used to arrange my maid's hair for her, if there was a dance down in the village, when really, it should have been the other way around!" One of his odd ears, rising to an abbreviated point, poked up through the thick, silky hair. Ellyth raised her eyebrows. "Goodness, those tufts of hair on the ends of your ears have grown rapidly also," she noted, "they are much longer than they were!"

Naythan scowled and reached for the scissors, but Ellyth retained her grip on the implements. "Well, I might as well do those too..." she stated. He sighed, turning his head, and she began to snip carefully at the tufts of hair. He was blushing a little, she noticed.

"Would rather you just cut _all_ the hair off... and ears too!" Naythan muttered. "Mistress," he added, glumly.

"You should not be self-conscious about your ears! They are quite attractive." Ellyth trimmed a tuft of hair and ran a finger over the blunt point of the ear... it twitched slightly.

"They look stupid. Have always hated my ears. As well as..." Naythan glanced down at his gloved hands, his booted feet. He sighed.

"Well, my uncle lost half of an ear to an arrow and what was left did not look very attractive... but I styled his hair differently, so that it quite covered the disfigurement. I can do the same for you. Then you will not need to wear that strange band about your brow anymore, or a hat either for that matter, yes?"

"But I would _like_ a hat, Mistress!"

"Oh very well, you may have the hat. But you will look well with longer hair, less out-of-the-ordinary. Besides, my last Gaidin had very long hair, I suppose that I have become accustomed to the sight of it..." Ellyth sighed. She had wept again, last night – she hoped Naythan had not heard – but it seemed to be getting a little better, easing slowly... she wished Shrina or Renn were here, though, they would have understood, would have known what to say. She hoped neither of them would ever go through the pain of losing her Warder, but she supposed they must. And Renn, _marrying_ the fellow! She must know that she would survive a great deal longer than he, that she would live to bury her husband... well, the heart made its own decisions.

Naythan rubbed his gloved fingers in his hair, reaching for his headband.

Ellyth frowned. "I have not done the other ear yet! Turn around."

Naythan sighed, and did so. He scowled alarmingly. "Gah!" he exclaimed, "you again! Sneaky Shaido!" Ellyth looked – the youth, Tevin, was standing hesitantly in the archway... the Aiel moved almost as quietly as Naythan...

"Forgive me, Nightwatcher," young Tevin apologised in a breathy voice, "I did not mean to intrude, I had to answer an urgent call of nature, but I shall return later..." the youth stared – "_Vron'cor!_ Your _ears!_ Why, I had not heard tell of _them_ in the stories! Of course, I knew that you had the Sign and the eyes and the-"

"They are the ears of Prince Tishinda! _Go away!_"

"Yes, _Vron'cor_, I will-"

"_Wait!_" Tevin poked his head back around the arch enquiringly. "Where is Cohradin?"

"I think he is up guarding the roof of your Roof, _Vron'cor_."

"Stop calling it that! Please to tell him to meet me in the Infirmary Chamber."

"Where, _Vron'cor?_"

Naythan responded crossly. "The oval-shaped room down below that has got the _ter'angreal_ that removes scars in it, of course! Foolish _Da'shain!_"

"Oh, _there_... it shall be as you say, Nightwatcher." Tevin bowed and left.

Ellyth blinked, forgetting the scissors for the time being. She opened her mouth, decided that she would rather not know, and closed it again. _Prince Tishinda? _Another bizarre custom of the Aiel? No, she really just did not want to know! Instead, she confined herself to raising a feathery eyebrow and saying;

"Cohradin?"

"Found something down in the infirmary last night, did I, mayhap he will be interested in it..."

"I do not think he will be interested in having his _scars_ removed, he seems to quite prize them for some reason..." Ellyth frowned, touching her cheek where there was still a small, pale scar of her own... that device down there, the Aiel had flatly refused to use it... and so had _she_ for that matter... why, she was as bad as they were!

_The Infirmary Chamber contained a couple of odd-looking couches, with numerous store-cabinets lining the two long, curving walls. The archway by which they entered stood at one end, a strange, crystalline armchair at the other. More of the glowing hemispheres in the ceiling cast a low, bluish light over the room._

_Naythan gestured at the chair. "This is Restorer, Mistress, a Healing-ter'angreal." He sniffed at the crystal surface of an arm of the chair, muttering, "more blood, same blood as upstairs..." under his breath. _

_Ellyth had already sensed its provenance, and regarded the device curiously. "If anyone requires Healing, I can provide it."_

"_But Mistress... it can..." _

_Naythan touched his cheek with a gloved finger. "Yes? What does it- oh!" He had reached out and gently touched her cheek in the same place, over the small scar. Though the odd bandage he had given her had worked extremely well, the sharp stone chip had left her with a slight, white indentation, marring the pale smoothness of the skin beneath her left cheek-bone. _

"_For Healing old wounds also, remove scar it will," Naythan said softly. He must have noted that she was a little self-conscious about the blemish. Ellyth glanced over her shoulder at where the Aiel were still lingering in the doorway, looking suspiciously at the glowing walls. She doubted they would be interested in such an application, the youth in particular seemed very proud of the crescent-shaped scar on his jaw... For her part, she regretted the mark, small though it was – some sort of Ebou Dari duelling scar might even have been preferable! – and the thought of somehow removing it was tempting, but... dark liquid eyes regarded Naythan for a long moment, then she shook her head, decisively. _

"_No. I thank you for the suggestion, Naythan, it was very good of you to think of it, but... it would not be proper. Considering only my Cause, I led my Warder to this place, led him to a battle that he did not survive, that I did. It is only fitting that I should bear some trace of it. An 'honourable scar' the Aiel might say, yes?"_

_Naythan blinked, then smiled. "Proud to serve Aes Sedai, am I," he declared huskily, and bowed, his gloved hands over his Shield. _

_Ellyth flushed. She had never been able to accept praise easily... "Aes Sedai in general, or myself in particular?" she enquired, pointedly._

"_Proud to serve Helathia Sedai in particular!"_

"_Mother's Milk! It is 'Ellythia!' "_

Ellyth shook her head and resumed the ear-trimming. _Honourable scar indeed!_ What had she been thinking of? She might just as well put on the _cadin'sor_ and take-up with the Maidens of the Spear! Though she understood that a fair amount of _running_ was involved in their duties, which she did not like the sound of. The ear she was attending to twitched.

"Hold still, or you may lose some blood!"

Naythan sighed again, gustily. "Hair! Annoying! Almost as annoying as young Tevin! Keeps following me about, he does, asking questions! But no, hair even worse. Like to keep it short, do I, but managed to lose razor..."

"Could you not borrow one from the Aielmen?"

Naythan looked aghast. "Have you seen what they use? Straight-razor, like something out of _museum_... would end up taking scalp off, too!"

"Goodness! Well, at least you do not need to shave your beard very often, by the looks of it... I always imagine that must be the _worst_ thing about being a man – or at least near the top of a very long list – having to _shave_ every morning!" Atual had always done it matter-of-factly, though neglecting to on occasion, whereas the Twins had seemed to regard it as an onerous chore, foisted upon them by Shrina... which it was, to be fair. Though she _did_ heat their shaving water for them every morning...

"Oh no, Mistress, do not need to worry about whiskers... _beard_, mean I, as Father permanently removed hair from face when did the rest of me... only hair on head..." he scowled "...and _ears_."

Ellyth blinked. "The... rest of you?"

Naythan grinned. "I was _very_ furry baby, Mistress!"

"I... see..." Well, _that_ was quite an image...

Naythan growled softly, sounding frustrated. "Annoyed about razor, it was a good one... dropped it somewhere... must have been when was chasing Mesaana's Children, before went to the Black College to see Father..."

"Mesaana? Her _children?_"

"Not _her_ children, Mistress, not even _children_, adults. Just a name."

"Oh, I see, as the Children of the Light are not children, yes?"

"Yes. Mesaana's Children, they are Darkfriends, only children when they were still in one of her schools... one of Mesaana's places, where her minions taught the orphans who had murdered their own parents to love the Shadow and hate themselves..." Naythan ceased looking solemn with the usual disconcerting abruptness with which his moods changed, and grinned "...after he ran away from home, Middle Brother wore clever disguise and went to one of her schools for a while... just to see what it was like. But his marks were not good, and was always getting into trouble, so he killed all of his teachers and left. But that is beside the point..." Naythan shrugged.

" 'Mesaana's Children' is also what we call 'brigands' or 'bandits' whether or not sworn to the Shadow... even if not, might as well be... those who are dead and hollow inside and take and hurt and murder to try to fill the emptiness within them. And dropped my razor, did I, whilst was executing them!" He scowled. "Had it that morning, last time I shaved head, so _must_ have been when... yes..."

"_Executed_, Naythan Gaidin?"

Naythan shrugged again. "They had attacked some people, some refugees, the day before, they did... bad things. It was my duty to ensure they did not do so again." He shook his head. "Though I did not enjoy it, even with them. It is not good, to kill humans..."

"It is well that you did not enjoy it, though I appreciate the necessity. 'The weak and helpless must ever be protected from tyranny,' wrote Lothair Mantelar. Though I suppose that I should not quote _him_... he did not care overmuch for those who wear the Shawl..."

A note of confession entered Naythan's voice. "I... do enjoy killing Shadow-wrought, Mistress. What I was made to do. I enjoy it very much, especially when they run away from me..."

"Well... if that is in your nature, so be it. Many of the Warders... well, dear Atual particularly, he always relished slaying the Spawn of the Shadow... and having seen what was left of an Arafelin village after a Fist of Trollocs had rampaged through it, I must say that I take a certain grim pleasure in it myself. I particularly enjoyed killing the Myrddraal, when we ambushed them... _there_. All done."

"Good! Nice smooth ears. You had best hold on to scissors, Mistress!"

"Very well. But the needle and thread are definitely _yours _to keep."

* * *

><p>Cohradin was enjoying the morning air up above, on the roof of the Nightwatcher's Roof. He squatted comfortably on his heels atop one of the great stone feet of He Who Smites the Shadow, keeping an eye – well, he had but one to keep! – on the cliffs, in case of Draghkar or ravens. There were neither. The ocean did not bother him so much now, he had grown more accustomed to it, though Gerom had told him that there were things called 'sea-storms' that made these 'waves' even larger, and much fiercer. He did not like the sound of that... perhaps the seas would rise up to here, in that event, and sweep them all away? It was a troubling thought. Well, he had come as close to the ocean as he cared to, and would go no further.<p>

The Shadow-wrought could come no further either, which was well. You could see their fires out there, at night, but he did not think they even knew their quarry had taken refuge, here in this strange Hold. It was something of an impasse, though, as well as a bit too much like _hiding_ for his stomach. Cohradin was tired of being here, at this End-of-the-World... he had given up on the _Car'a'carn_, doubtless that smirking Gaul fellow had found him by now and won their wager... well, he did not care, for he had found something too, and wanted to take _Vron'cor_ back to Wet Sands Hold! It was fortunate indeed, that they had found the Nightwatcher. Finally, his luck had changed! It had to happen eventually...

Cohradin was in an excellent mood, but he was also hungry, and it was time to break his fast. He looked down at the silvery tin at his feet, and sighed. If anything was liable to spoil this fine morning, then it would be the food...

"_What is this place, Vron'cor?"_

"_Store Chamber, Cohradin... are you alright? Look a bit worried, do you..."_

"_I am fine!" The big scar on Cohradin's face went red, as it always did when he lied, for this statement was something of a falsehood... and one should not tell untruths to the Nightwatcher... one should behave honourably or Vron'cor would not trouble to watch over you in the dark hours of the night, as he only protected the sleep of _good_ Aiel children... his mother had told him this, before the Shadowrunners waked her, and Chassin's mother, when he was fostered beneath their Roof, had said much the same things to the two of them each night before she blew out the candle, but Cohradin banished this troubling thought. The truth was, this strange Hold of the Nightwatcher's... or his sire's, the old Aes Sedai ghost-father who had made Vron'cor out of clay and breathed life into him... well, it was a somewhat disquieting place... the long room that had the crystal chair in, for example... these strange halls with the glowing walls... and though they had been shown several of the underground rooms by the Nightwatcher, there still did not seem to be anything to _eat_ here. _

"_What is stored within here, Naythan Gaidin?" the Aes Sedai wanted to know. _

"_Many things, Mistress... ho! _My_ things, even!"_

_Vron'cor was indicating one of the heartstone chests that were set into the floor along a wall. The opposite wall from the one with the glowing cabinets. There were three of the chests. One had a yellow circle on it, the next a green double-circle, like that on the coat of the Nightwatcher's other brother in the strange picture up in the round room... the last, the one that Vron'cor knelt by, had the Sign of the Nightwatcher on it, that which was marked on his chest, shining like metal beneath the skin, very like the markings of a Clan Chief, now that he thought about it... Suladric's odd creature, scored into the skin of his arm, had glittered in this way, Cohradin had noted, that time at Chaendaer when they were in the same sweat-tent... _

_Vron'cor took out the key-thing he had used to open up the staircase and glanced at the Aes Sedai. "Mistress? Spirit, this time, if you please?"_

_The Aes Sedai squinted in that way she did when she was doing some thing of the One Power, and Cohradin and the others drew back a little. It was not wise to stand too close to an Aes Sedai when she did her One Power things. A flickering pale light appeared in the centre of the crystal Vron'cor held, and an answering light came from a round depression in the chest, into which he inserted it. It stayed there when he took his hand away, and a low humming began to sound. "Will take a while to complete cycle," he commented. _

_The Aes Sedai nodded. "I recall. After I did the same with your ter'angreal box, nothing happened for quite a time. I feared that nothing _would_ happen. A rather dark moment, all things considered..." She blinked, then glanced cautiously at Cohradin and the others. "Yes... well... what is inside these boxes, Naythan Gaidin?" _

_Cohradin often got the impression that Ellythia Desiama did not realise that her Warder was just pretending to be her Warder and was actually the Nightwatcher, that she thought the Shaido did not know that he came from the Age of Legends, and had slept his enchanted sleep. Should he tell her? But it was best not to interfere, nor say anything for that matter... Vron'cor had been quite emphatic about that... besides, the doings of Aes Sedai and Nightwatchers were not for a lowly Knife Hand to involve himself with... _

_"What is inside, Mistress? Personal effects, in my case, I think, things that Father kept of mine... surprised he bothered, am I." Vron'cor nodded to the other cuendillar chests. "These are my Brother's also... though not sure what is inside them..." he indicated the chest with the circle "...with Elder Brother, his _toys_, probably! His _bear_. Never would let Father throw them out, I heard..." Cohradin blinked his one eye. How could you fit an entire bear into one of those chests? He did not understand what Vron'cor meant... but then, he rarely did. _

"_And as for Middle Brother..." the Nightwatcher gestured at the chest with the double-circle, and grinned. "Dread to think! Trolloc skulls and things like that, assume I!" _

_"I see... well, it was good of your father to keep such items... were these ter'angreal boxes utilised commonly, in the Age of-" the Aes Sedai glanced at Cohradin and the others again, frowning, "that is to say, in your day?"_

_"Used more, later than that... when bad things were happening everywhere and people wanted to save something for the future... ah, it is opening now!"_

_The top of the cuendillar chest melted and shrank into the walls. The key-thing dropped out of the hole in which it had been glowing and Vron'cor caught it neatly, returning it to one of those pouches in his strange belt. Cohradin noted that the Aes Sedai looked on it with a hungry gaze for a moment... the Nightwatcher began to root eagerly through the chest, dropping things on to the floor; a small wooden box, a framed picture of a seated lady with golden hair, some strangely-dressed children standing around her, a leather cord with several grey, shrivelled things strung on it..._

"_Not much inside... ah, here it is, at the bottom, hoped Father would not get rid of!" Vron'cor produced an instrument-case, like that a Gleeman kept his harp in, though longer and flatter. _

_Meanwhile, the Aes Sedai was examining the grey, leathery objects on the cord. "What are these, Naythan Gaidin?" she enquired, pressing one between her fingers, "they look like some kind of dried fruit, yes?" _

"_Um... they are Myrddraal ears, Mistress..."_

"_Eeee!" The Aes Sedai hurriedly dropped the cord and its grisly decorations, vigorously scrubbing her fingers against her cloak. "That is _disgusting_, Naythan!"_

_Vron'cor nodded reasonably. "I know. Always thought so too, did I. But necklace was only thing Middle Brother ever sent to me from the War, was always asking him for a sword, or a knife at least, but he just sent me ears instead. Still, only time he ever bothered to send something, so kept them, did I. Sentimental! Besides, might have hurt Brother's feelings if had thrown them out..." the Nightwatcher adopted a musing tone "...not that he really _had_ feelings, of course..."_

"_Who is she, Vron'cor?" enquired Manda, indicating the lady in the picture. "She has very fine hair. It is the hue of the sunshine." _

_The Aes Sedai glanced at the picture, as did Cohradin. It was remarkably well-detailed, the colours bright, like the picture upstairs of Vron'cor and his father and his other brother, who was blind and looked a bit like a Myrddraal, though of course he was not, it must just be an unfortunate co-incidence of features... his hair was white too, this other brother, as seemed to be the case with the entire Heroic family! Perhaps his father's hair had been white also, before it all fell out? The picture was a bit cracked and worn-looking, though protected in a nice sung-wood frame with a pane of shiny glass over it..._

_Vron'cor looked and sounded sad. "The Lady Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar," he said softly, "Ilyena Sunhair." He grinned momentarily; "called her that to her face once, did I!" before looking sad again. _

"_Ahem!" went the Aes Sedai._

_The Nightwatcher became contrite. "Called her picture that, mean I," he mumbled, "not to her face, of course..." He sighed, the sadness returning. _

"_She was very beauteous," observed Jahdi, "her hair is coloured a little like mine."_

_"Your hair is not so fine as that," Manda commented, flatly. _

_Jahdi eyed her Spear-sister coldly. "T__hough were not she and her kin slain by the Dragon, in his madness?"_

"_Yes!" snapped Vron'cor, sounding exasperated whilst returning his attention to the music case, undoing the catches, "_that_ is the reason why I am looking sad!"_

_Meanwhile, Tevin had curiously opened the small wooden box. It appeared to contain several small balls, some with bells inside, as well as a few fluffy grey things... the youth picked one up and squeezed it – it made a squeaking sound. _

_Vron'cor had been stroking his hands lovingly over the surface of whatever was inside the instrument case, at this noise he glanced up, his face colouring a little._

"_What are these things, Vron'cor?" Tevin enquired._

"_They are... gifts... well, a War-Sister used to give them to me sometimes, as a joke... _think_ it was supposed to be a joke, had odd sense of humour, did Kiam Sedai... like you Shaido! Don't know why I kept..."_

"_They look a bit like mice... they have tails of string... and they squeak when you press them." Tevin illustrated this by squeezing the grey thing again; 'squeak!'_

_Vron'cor scowled and snatched the box from Tevin, dropping it back into the ter'angreal chest. He took one last thing out of it, which he swiftly stuffed into his pocket, then produced a musical instrument from the case. It was a fiddle, made of some dark, reddish wood, a bit like those the Lost Ones played... Cohradin had sneaked up to one of their camps one night, back in the Three-fold Land, to observe them... he had been curious... he had watched whilst they sat on the steps of their wagons, playing these particular instruments as well as others, but none of the songs they sang had seemed to be about anything worthwhile, like battle or honour or death, so he had grown bored after a while and sneaked away again. Besides, all of those bright colours had been making his eyes hurt. This was in the days when he still had two. _

_This fiddle looked much finer than theirs... why, it was sung-wood also! Cohradin had never heard that the Ogier made such things, but his knowledge of them was limited. He had only ever visited a stedding once, and the Treebrothers had soon asked him to leave, because he had become weary with all of the plants and things and in search of amusement, had arranged a wrestling match between Gerom and the Ogier youth who sang them the bowls they had come to trade for... _

_A nice-enough young Treebrother, with an enquiring mind, who had kept asking them questions about wetland cities and the groves they reputedly contained, questions that they could not answer, except for Gerom, though his knowledge was a little out-dated... the young Ogier had not wished to wrestle the big Aielman for fear of hurting him, and had taken some convincing, Cohradin recalled, he had been very worried that someone called 'Elder Haman' would find out, his mother also... and later, had been most apologetic about dislocating Gerom's shoulder in the course of winning the match... well, it was only a little friendly wrestling, with perhaps a few wagers on the side... but the older Ogier had disapproved of the disruption to the peace of Stedding Shangtai, and had asked Cohradin and the other Knife Hands to leave, politely but firmly. Treebrothers were a bit like Wise Ones in this respect, if far more mannerly... if one of them asked you to do something, you did it..._

_The fiddle's 'bow' he thought it was called, was also sung-wood. Vron'cor rubbed some wax onto the hairs strung along it, tightening them, then propped the fiddle beneath his chin and ran the bow over the strings. The noises he produced sounded a bit like a Sharan striped-cat being tormented by some other Sharan striped-cats, Cohradin considered. _

"_Hmm, it is badly out of tune," concluded Vron'cor, "well, it is hardly surprising... will attend to it later."_

"_Nightwatcher?" enquired Tevin, politely._

"_Yes, young Tevin?"_

"_Is there any food to be found in those silver boxes over there?" Tevin pointed at the rows of shiny boxes in the clear cabinets, stacked behind the shimmering white light. Cohradin and the others looked up at this. If there was nothing to eat here, then they might have to climb back down and attempt to hunt some of these 'fish,' though Cohradin was not sure quite how that might be accomplished. Arrows, perhaps? Though the wetlanders utilised a sort of 'net-thing' did they not? Perhaps Gerom would know..._

_Vron'cor nodded solemnly. "Food? I am very much afraid that there is. Over there, behind light-that-stops-Time. Tin boxes contain supplies... but you will not like them."_

_The Aes Sedai glanced up. She had been frowning at the other thing Vron'cor had taken out of his chest, Cohradin noted, a velvet pouch with something round and seemingly heavy inside, for it bulged the pocket of the coat the Nightwatcher wore, the pocket that he had hastily tucked it inside. Doubtless another of these 'tri-angerals' he kept about his person, that she was always pressing him to let her hold._

"_I am certainly famished," declared the Aes Sedai, "so if you are quite finished with your..." she glanced at the ears and shuddered a little "... family heirlooms..."_

"_No, Mistress – ear-looms!" Vron'cor made the mewling noise in the back of his throat whilst the Aes Sedai frowned at him, then put his fiddle away carefully, rose and went over to the wall. "It will take web of Spirit to open... yes, there is food..." he indicated the silver boxes behind the pale, shimmering wall... "but I do not think that you will like it Mistress... supplies for an emergency, are they... field-rations... perhaps even you Shaidos who eat spiders and bugs and other nasty things will not care for them..."_

"_It was scorpions," Cohradin protested, "and it was only the one time, Vron'cor, in order to gain much honour!"_

_Manda glanced at Cohradin. Jahdi had told her the finger-story of how Cohradin once ate several live scorpions to win a foolish wager with some Thunder Walkers... though sickening, she could not help but approve, since she did not care for scorpions. Though she cared for Cohradin even less! _

_Gerom was watching Vron'cor. He could tell that the Nightwatcher was speaking the truth about the food, but that did not mean he always spoke truthfully... though he was a poor dissembler. Gerom frowned, lips pursed thoughtfully. He was not like his near-brothers. He had read more books. He thought beyond the Dance of the Spears. Sadora the Wise One had tried to force him to become Sept Chief _twice_ now... on both occasions he had refused politely whilst she hit him with her stick, then took his tent and went to live out in the unclaimed-lands for a month, until Sadora's ire had cooled. And Aiel or Sharaman, Peddler, Gleeman or the Nightwatcher himself – he could always tell when someone was lying. As Vron'cor clearly had about the swords, for example. The covenant... _what covenant?

"_These supplies, they cannot be _that_ bad, Naythan Gaidin," protested the Aes Sedai, squinting at the glowing white light for a moment, making it disappear. Vron'cor opened one of the cabinets and took out a silver tin, wrinkling his nose._

"_Wait and see, Mistress, you will not enjoy, no-one ever does... even the Warmen did not, I think me that the only time they almost seemed like human-beings was when they complained of the rations! Almost able to have a _conversation_ with them about it, was I!"_

Reluctantly, Cohradin reached into the silver box and withdrew a thick, green wafer, that looked a bit like a _zemai_-husk, but was not. He took a bite, chewing slowly, then forcing himself to swallow. They were far from palatable, these 'supplies' that _Vron'cor_ had found for them, though when you considered that they had lain here for more than thirty hundreds of years, they were at least edible. Some working of the One Power had kept them fresh, apparently. Well, these odd wafers and the other foodstuffs, they kept you alive, but that was about the best that could be said of them... he had overheard the Aes Sedai remark that it was enough to make her miss _hare_... what was wrong with hare? It was far tastier than these green things... though they could have been worse. They tasted better than live scorpions, at least! Though just about _everything_ did, for that matter. Cohradin sighed, hankering for a nice, fat _motai_ grub, all sweet and wriggly as he crunched into it... his bones longed for the Three-fold Land, he had had quite enough of these confusing wetlands. Though not so confusing as Forbidden Shara, admittedly... the small purple creatures... the Headbelly Men... the Great Bird... yes, _that_ was a _very_ odd place!

Cohradin was just trying to decide whether the thick wafer tasted more of cat or of fox – though perhaps it tasted a little like snake, for that matter? – when... he turned, and smiled at the Maidens of the Spear, who were scowling up at him and looking disgruntled. He had been _expecting_ something like this, oft of late he had noticed the Maidens finger-bickering with each other whilst casting angry glances in his direction, enough to tell him that _he_ was the subject of their silent discourse.

Gerom and Chassin were there too, witnessing. Gerom was contentedly puffing on that silver-chased pipe he had won from Jahdi – there had been tabac here, amongst the stores, though rolled into tubes between leaves, for some reason – whilst Chassin was chewing another of the wafers. He had said he quite _liked_ the way they tasted, which reminded him a little of lizard, always his favourite food as a boy, Cohradin recalled.

"I see you, Gerom and Chassin," Cohradin called politely, "is it not a fine day, my brothers?" before returning his attention to the Maidens of the Spear. They looked ready to veil themselves!

"Yes, Maidens?" Cohradin enquired graciously, slipping down from the stone foot and standing before them, hands on hips. The Maidens glared at him, glared at each other, then glared back at him again. And extended their spears, holding them out level before them. Cohradin grinned. Oh, it _was_ turning out to be a good morning, despite the ill-tasting food... a _motai_ might be sweet, but the savour of revenge was far sweeter!

"I have _toh_ to you, Cohradin," growled Manda.

"I have _toh_ to you also, Cohradin," snarled Jahdi.

"You do, sweet Maidens of the Spears? How so?" Cohradin's single blue eye was wide and innocent.

"You know _very well_, Cohradin!"

"You are just _pretending_ that you do not, because you are a pig!"

"You have obligation to me_, Far Dareis Mai?_ You have _toh_, to the pig you beat with sticks before it turned out that you were not supposed to beat him with sticks? _That_ pig?"

"_Yes!_"

"_Pig!_"

"But _why?_ Oh, is it perhaps because I assured you that if you followed me to this place, to this End of the World, that we would at least find _something_ of interest, if not He Who Comes with the Dawn, then at least some worthwhile thing that would please our Wise One if we took it back to Wet Sands Hold to show to her, so that old Sadora would allow us to stay and not drive us back out into the unclaimed lands with her stick, like unwanted goats who have the goat-cough and must be kept away from the other, healthier goats? Is _that_ why?"

"Yes, Cohradin – of course!"

"That is so... and you are _yet_ a pig!"

The one-eyed swine of the _Sovin Nai_ mused further; "and it would seem, now, that in coming here, we _have_ found something of interest – we have found the Nightwatcher! Why, I am sure that old Sadora will be _very_ happy to see _him!_"

"Sadora is never happy to see _anyone_," Chassin mumbled, through a mouthful of lizardy wafer.

"Sadora was happy to see the young Gleeman," Gerom pointed-out, waving his pipe in emphasis, "she much enjoyed his romantic ballads and did not wish to let Roth Blucha go back to the wetlands, when his wounds were healed."

"Nor did the Maidens!" laughed Cohradin, "for they well-liked his soft, unscarred skin!" The Maidens scowled. At _each other_, as well as Cohradin... they remembered the Gleeman all too well! "Besides, I have heard _Vron'cor_ singing to himself a few times, he would seem to have a fine enough voice as far as I can tell. Perhaps if we ask him to, the Nightwatcher will agree to wear a patched-cloak and carry a harp about (or his odd fiddle-thing if we cannot find for him a harp) and warble a few of the soppy love songs that women favour, sad drippy airs which do not tell of honourable things such as battle... and _then_ old Sadora will be _extremely_-"

"Never mind such foolishness!" snapped Manda.

"What of our obligation?" demanded Jahdi.

Cohradin stroked his chin musingly. "I will have to think on it," he said. The Maidens lowered their raised spears, visibly resisting the urge to plunge the wicked blades into Cohradin's chest while they did so, then turned and stalked away. Cohradin watched them go, smiling. They rudely pushed past young Tevin on their way down the steps.

Gerom took the pipe from his mouth, and gestured with it thoughtfully. "You could require them to clean everyone's _cadin'sor_ for a month," he suggested.

Chassin shook his head. "Too lenient... you should just beat them."

Cohradin nodded consideringly. "These are both of them good suggestions, my brothers... or perhaps I could beat the Maidens _whilst_ they washed everyone's _cadin'sor_..." he grinned nastily "...but I think that I have a better idea."

"Cohradin, _Vron'cor_ wants you!" Tevin was hopping from foot to foot.

"Where is he?" Cohradin scowled. Impetuous youth!

"In the room of his Father's Hold where may be found the One Power chair."

"Why does the Nightwatcher-"

"I cannot answer more of your questions, Cohradin, I must urinate!"

Tevin hopped up onto the parapet, unlaced the front of his britches and proceeded to relieve himself from a great height into the Aryth Ocean. Cohradin shrugged. Well, when you had to go, you had to go... besides, even young Tevin's unmannerly behaviour could not spoil his mood on this excellent morning!

"Keep watch until I return, Tevin. You have the first watch tonight, also."

"I _know_ Cohradin, I would not forget!" Tevin protested over his shoulder, as Cohradin made his way below, to see what the Nightwatcher wanted.

* * *

><p><em>N'aethan sat in the Restorer, in the crystal chair at the end of the Infirmary Chamber, remembering... It was the Aes Sedai's words that had set him thinking, about not enjoying the killing... nor taking a delight in war... he did not, at least not anymore, but he had never been entirely sure about Middle Brother... it was not worthy to enjoy killing, it always led to the Shadow... but that was something his disquieting Brother had been immune to, by his very nature. If a Myrddraal was a dark reflection of a man... then <em>he_ had been a reflection of that darkness in turn. But not in some twisted mirror of the Shadow... definitely of the Light. Even so..._

Tro gazed out across the windswept, fire-torn battlefield; columns of dark, oily smoke rising from the wrecked armoured jumpers... a squad of stony-faced Warmen using flame-tubes to dispose of enemy corpses... a grim War-Servant leading a severed Dreadlord away for interrogation and execution… he turned his eyes away from this, and trudged back through the gate.

Well, his first battle seemed to be over and done with, and a Myrddraal had _not_ taken his head, after all... quite the opposite. The Beastmen, even the Shadowmen... they all moved so slow! Tro needed a challenge. He wondered what it would be like to fight a _Gholam?_ It was one of the things he had been made for, was it not? The main thing, even. He hoped that he would get to soon (though he was a little nervous about it also) as there were only a couple of them left, he had heard. Well, apart from the one Father had trapped, but nobody was supposed to know about it. Tro wished he was allowed to fight _that_ one, just to see what it was like, but Father wouldn't let him, as he didn't want it damaged before he had finished his tests.

Tro abruptly realised that whilst he had been thinking about fighting a _Gholam_ again – he did that a fair bit – he had been staring fixatedly at something he didn't particularly wish to stare at. So, Tro tore his strange eyes away from the pile of Myrddraal heads and glanced up toward the gate instead, immediately wishing that he had not... he frowned. Even a battle won was unpleasant, it seemed. Another recently-severed, sobbing prisoner, clad in bloody rags, being pushed through the gate by two scowling War-Sisters. Tro's eyes followed them as they went past.

The captured, condemned Dreadlord was a slim woman; tears running down her pale face, her head roughly shaved, bloody scrapes here and there on her scalp (he inhaled sharply) where the uncaring razor had cut too deep, the glyph-character for 'traitor' marked on her forehead in red ink, as she had been Aes Sedai once. Tro watched her being led away for execution, repelled yet fascinated.

They were worse than Shadow-wrought in a way, these traitor Aes Sedai... they had chosen this path, and not been bred to it. Of course, some had been turned to the Shadow, against their will... they always just got severed and executed as well, since it was too dangerous to leave someone like that alive, they were not really a person anymore, inside, but a creature of the Shadow... but at least they did not shave off their hair and paint words like 'traitor' and 'betrayer' on their foreheads. It upset Tro to see humans treating other humans in that way, even if they were Shadowsworn. He had always known that the War would be violent and cruel... brutal and terrible... horrific as well... but he had never realised that it would also be _ugly_.

A break in the louring clouds above, a sparse ray of sunlight passing over the walls of the Border-fortress... and with serpentine grace, Taw-of-the-Screaming-spear stepped out of the Light in his usual disconcerting way, an insubstantial grey shadow solidifying into permanence as though it had always been there. Taw nodded to Tro as he strode past, his spear propped on his shoulder, tossed the three severed Myrddraal heads that he was holding by their long lank hair onto the pile with the others and turned, his whispering voice somehow managing to approximate a shout, a harsh word that echoed in the air like a distant clap of thunder;

"_Squire_."

Taw shook some of the dark blood from his spear-blade whilst he waited and then leant on the dark, Power-wrought weapon. Tro walked up to join his Brother, meeting his momentary blind gaze without flinching, which few others could do. They did not particularly resemble each other, with the exception of the long, white hair, which Wan had had too... but like him, they both – each in his own way – had something in common. A sense of humour... something they had inherited from Father, he supposed. About the _only_ thing!

Taw turned toward his approaching Squire, the golden hilt sticking up over his shoulder catching the sunlight. It had a heron-mark on it. Tro eyed it enviously... he wished he had one of those! It wasn't fair – Taw preferred fighting with his spear anyway, he only ever used the sword to decapitate his dead opponents. The Dragon himself had presented him with the blade, when he made him Captain of _Shen an Sora_. Tro sighed. He knew that if _he_ had a sword, he would use it properly... maybe he would even challenge Sammael or Demandred to a duel? Something like that, anyway... why not? Even if he lost, it was a better use for a fine Heron-mark blade than Taw had for it... he was like a goodwife in one of those Low comedies Father enjoyed, a rustic in an apron chopping the heads off chickens! Why did his Brother not just carry a _bone-saw_ around with him, and use that instead?

Taw plunged his spear-blade into the ground, then raised gauntleted hands to his helm, undoing the strap and lifting the ornate armour from his head. While he wore it, the shock-visor had hidden the fact that his pale face lacked eyes. A youth wearing the _cadin'gai_ of a Warman Cadet stepped forward and saluted smartly. Tro was wearing that same uniform, though he was only pretending to be a Cadet.

"Sir," said the Squire, a blank-faced lad of about fifteen.

Taw didn't say anything, just handed his Squire the helmet and took a white silk scarf from him in return. The Squire retrieved his Captain's spear and methodically began to clean the blade whilst Taw wound the scarf about his brow, tying a knot in it at the back of his skull. Covering his eyes, or rather, the place where his eyes should have been. Tro was pleased to note that he was almost as tall as the Squire, though he was only ten. Well, nine. Nearly ten though, only two more weeks! But the Squire was a human, and didn't grow so fast.

Taw was in a good mood, he could tell. He was always in a good mood after he had got to kill some Shadow-wrought. Which Tro considered to be perfectly understandable. It was well, to be given the opportunity to do what you had been made to do, after all. Of course, his Brother didn't really have moods or feelings, as most would understand them... but he had been around people long enough that replicating emotions and draping them about himself had become an almost unconscious accessory to living, like the wearing of clothes, the carrying of weapons. Tro decided to try-out his new joke;

"I was just wondering, Cadet Halyon, if you knew how many Trollocs it takes to screw in a glow-bulb?" Tro asked the Squire. The youth eyed him, blank faced.

"Trollocs do not change glow-bulbs, Cadet Tro," the Squire responded, in a dull monotone. "I think me that is something the _zomera_ would be instructed to do."

"What if they did, though? How many of them?"

"One?" The Squire passed the Screaming-spear back to his Captain.

"Wrong – _five!_ One Trolloc to hold the glow-bulb steady, and four more to turn it around in circles!" Tro grinned.

The Squire just looked at him. "I will remember that," he commented, "five Trollocs." Tro scowled at the Squire's back as he paced away to stow his Captain's helmet with the rest of his war-gear. Below the white scarf and his straight slash of a nose, Taw was smiling that strange, almost-smile of his. When he spoke, his voice rustled, like an old wasp's nest being torn from the rafters;

"_A waste of time, Little Brother_," he whispered, chidingly, "_I have been attempting to make a Warman laugh at one of my jests for years... I have not yet succeeded... and my jokes are better than yours._"

"Are not!"

"_Are too_."

Another captured Dreadlord came into view, being marched toward where the Ogier headsman awaited her, eyes dully fixed on the ground, freshly-shaved skull painted with the mark of the traitor lowered, though she seemed to have taken being severed from the Source better than some of the others. She glanced up for a moment, her dark-eyed gaze dead, before her shoulders slumped once more, the Warmen gripping an arm to either side half-supporting her, a War-Sister pacing just behind.

Tro blinked. It was strange, even though his Brother had no organs of sight and wore a scarf over where they would have been, Tro got the sudden impression that his figurative 'eyes' had just narrowed. The expression on his face, perhaps? Usually, Taw just looked grim. But for a moment, he had looked almost... avid.

"_Excuse me, Brother, I have just recognised someone..." _With unearthly speed and grace, Taw drifted into the path of the prisoner and stood still, blocking her way. The Warmen to either side paused, waiting stolidly, features blank. The attendant War-Sister simply crossed her arms impatiently, her face a cool mask... but her eyes were a little wide, her pupils slightly dilated, Tro noted. Fear. Taw had that effect on people... even _Aes Sedai_ people! And of course, he stood as immune to Channelling as Tro did himself. Just like Wan had, also. Tro considered that to be the main reason why most of the Servants of the Hall had never much cared for the Lightborn. It must be disconcerting for them...

The Dreadlord prisoner's dull gaze lingered for a moment on the booted feet of the person who had interposed himself in her path. Slowly, reluctantly, she raised her dark, defeated eyes, taking in the officer's _cadin'gai_ of shimmering shatter-cloth, the still, pale cloak draped over those armoured shoulders... the features... snake-fast, Taw raised a hand to his face and lifted up the scarf. He smiled.

"_Boo!_"

The Dreadlord screamed. Screamed as though the demons of the Pit were torturing her, half-falling to the muddy ground, attempting to curl into a foetal shape, trembling and shaking, still screaming hysterically, rending shrieks escaping her until she had no breath left. The Warmen scowled, each tugging an arm, dragging her to her feet. Middle Brother had lowered the scarf back over his smooth sockets and stood, leaning on his spear, regarding her with senses other than sight. She trembled beneath his eyeless gaze, a rabbit pinned by a hawk, and began to sob with terror.

"_Warman Sergeant._"

"Sir?"

"_This one is called 'Sylvaia.' She was one of Mesaana's Instructors, in one of Mesaana's schools. See to it that the Alantin ti Avende execute her last of all. Make her watch the other betrayers die first_."

"Aye, Shadow-Scourger, it will be done as you say."

Resuming her screams, the condemned woman who had once called herself Aes Sedai was dragged away. The War-Sister followed-on, after an unreadable glance at both of them. Taw watched for a moment, expressionless, then turned toward Tro.

"_There, Younger Brother, I believe that I have just proved that I am more amusing than you are. A fine jest, was it not?_"

Tro frowned, and didn't say anything. Taw eyed him, eyelessly.

"_What?_"

"Nothing."

"_Huh. You are too soft-hearted for the War, Little Brother. I am going to have to toughen you up._"

"I am tough enough! I slew many Beastmen this day!"

"_Beastmen do not count. They are easy. How many Shadowmen?_"

"A few..." Tro glanced at the large pile of Myrddraal heads. "Not quite so many as _that_, but you barely left me any!"

"_How many is 'a few?' I have never heard tell of this number..._"

"Stop being an ass, Brother! Alright, let me see... I killed... yes, three... they did not move so fast as I thought they would... well, it was four really, counting the one that was already wounded... it was crawling around on the ground looking for its head, anyway..."

"_That does not count either._" Taw smiled coldly. "_I believe you will find its head here_," he stated, kicking the pile of severed Myrddraal craniums, "_down at the bottom somewhere, if the Shadowman is unlucky_."

Tro grinned. "Well, it encountered _you_, Middle-Bro... I think that for a Shadowman, that is about as unlucky as it gets!"

"_True._"

Abruptly, Tro scowled, and slipped behind Taw, as a deep, basso growling vibrated the smoky air.

"_You should not scowl, Little Brother_," Taw whispered, his voice like the rupture of rotten ice in Spring thaw, "_it makes your eyes go slitty_."

The enormous wolfhound was staring at Tro with a rather cold gaze. He could not help but notice that it had the mangled corpse of a Darkhound dangling from its jaws... it dropped its prize and approached further, still growling ominously.

"'Least I _have_ eyes, even if they _do_ look weird," muttered Tro absently, carefully keeping his Brother between him and the Hound of Light. "Nice doggy," he added, nervously. _Foul-smelling overgrown cur!_

"_Cease, Hound_," Taw commanded, slapping the enormous canine on the nose. It paused, and stopped growling, opting for a plaintive whine instead. Taw relented, stroking its ears, having to reach up a little to do so. "_I know you do not like the way he smells_," he allowed, but then his whispery voice became chiding, "_but try to remember, Younger Brother serves the Light as faithfully as do we – he is not for chasing and eating! You are a bad dog! Bad!_" The Lighthound whined further, then sniffed, perhaps scenting further Shadowdogs to chase and kill. It turned, and raced away across the smoking battlefield.

Tro frowned, watching it go. Hound could run almost as fast as _he_ could... though fortunately not faster, or the first time they met, he would never have made it up that tree in time. "Damned enormous mutt," he grumbled, "wish Father had never constructed it... and what's wrong with the way I smell? I took a bath last night, remember? With you and that odd Lore Ajah friend of yours..."

"_She is not my friend!_"

"So who is she, then?"

"_Arietta Sedai is her name, she Forged my spear for me and does not seem to be as scared of me as all of the other Aes Sedai are... she is supposed to be conducting research into combat-fatigue but instead spends most of her time following me around with her endless questions – she even followed me up to the Blight-Watch Towers once, during a heavy incursion... I have been required to save her life on no less than two occasions, now…it is irritating..._"

"Why does she ask you all these questions, Middle-Bro?"

"_She wants to know what it is like being me! She intends to write a paper about it... wishes to 'get under my skin' as she puts it. I have repeatedly explained to her that I lack both eyes and emotions, that I am a living weapon, an inhuman killing machine, and only really exist in order to make war on the Shadow, but she will not listen, she does not care, she- why are you grinning at me like that, Little Brother? Do you want me to give you a N'zoarese-burn, like Father showed us? I still remember how to, you know... cheeky monkey..._"

* * *

><p>Cohradin noted that<em> Vron'cor<em> had a far-away look in those strange eyes that Watched the Night. He was smiling slightly, also.

"I see you, _Vron'cor_."

The Nightwatcher stirred in the crystal chair, and stood, grinning.

"I see you also Cohradin... twice as well as you see me!"

Cohradin scowled. "Is that another of your jests, _Vron'cor?_"

"No, not, it is a _segue_..."

"What is that?"

"A way of moving from one thing to another thing – such as this thing!"

Cohradin examined that which the Nightwatcher had produced with disfavour. "A white mask with red eyes... what foolishness is this, _Vron'cor?_"

"_Seia'dor!_ Not foolish, that is just what you have to keep them in – you would like one? I warn you now – it will hurt! Hurt _very_ bad... but then, afterwards, you will see as well as me! Well, not _that_ good, of course... but see _better_, you will!"

Cohradin mistrustfully regarded the pale face shape, the two red spheres that looked to be made out of glass, embedded in the sockets... but then, he shrugged.

"Well, it is only pain – I did not wish to trouble the Aes Sedai with restoring my eye to me, in any case – I will try your mask-of-eyes, _Vron'cor_. What must I do?"

"Hold it to your face, I will fetch Servant of All, needs Spirit to-"

"_Aaargghhh!_"

"Oh, must be one of ones that does not!"

Cohradin had collapsed, screaming, the white mask – which had abruptly begun to glow – fused to his face, one of the red orbs set into it throbbing with crimson light. As Cohradin thrashed on the floor, his limbs spasming wildly, he continued to roar and bellow with primal agony, something he had not troubled to do for the Maidens who beat him... or for anyone else, for that matter...

"_Ou'ch!_ Try to relax, Cohradin, will be over soon... just the _sul'seia_ making your dead nerves wake-up! Sssss! Nasty!"

"Get this... _thing_ off me!" Cohradin's voice was distinctly muffled behind the mask. He pulled at it, fruitlessly.

"Relax..."

"_Aarghh!_ It has attached itself... to my face! _Aaargghhh!_ Tear it off!"

"You will feel better soon..."

It was at this point that Cohradin fainted. When he came-to, the incredible, unbelievable agony had gone, though his head still ached fiercely, and _Vron'cor_ was leaning over him solicitously, staring with his strange eyes... Eyes? Cohradin blinked. With _both_ eyes. He blinked, properly, for the first time in a long time. Far too long. Now, those he blinked at and winked at should know the difference! The vision in his new eye was a little strange... somewhat hazy, not to mention with a dull reddish shade to things... but it was much better than having no eye there at all!

The Aes Sedai appeared in the archway, frowning. "What was all of that screaming about?" she demanded. "Are the two of you_ fighting_ again? What is going- oh." She had met Cohradin's gaze... she flinched slightly. "Well, Master Aiel... that is certainly very... distinctive..." she turned her head toward _Vron'cor_, her dark eyes remaining fixed on Cohradin's with a sort of disturbed fascination "...could you not have found him one that _matched_, Naythan?" she hissed.

"No, Mistress, only come in _red_, do they." The Nightwatcher grinned down at Cohradin. "_It lends to the eye a terrible aspect..._" quoth-he, then scowled in his disconcerting way when Cohradin did not grasp whatever allusion it was. Not until he had staggered as far as the wash-room and looked in the mirror, at least...

Later, Cohradin made his important announcement to the amazed Shaido. "I am no longer one-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_... I am now... _red_-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai! _See how fearsome it looks, my brothers!"

"Can see in the dark with it too," _Vron'cor_ pointed-out, smugly.

Cohradin grinned. "I can watch the night also! I will be a Hero as well!"

The other Shaido frowned at each other, thinking the same thing... Cohradin had a new eye, it seemed, a disconcerting red one at that... and as a result, would no-doubt become even more insufferable! Manda signed to Jahdi;

_and what if he has a red eye? he yet has a foolish name!_

* * *

><p>"Well," N'aethan said softly to himself, when he awoke, "that was odd." He sat up and looked around, feeling troubled. Not just about the strange dream, though that was certainly part of it. He could not quite put his cl- his <em>finger<em> on it, but something was wrong... his Shield was not detecting any Shadow-wrought nearby and checking his _Gholam_-sticker, he noted that the blade was not shining either. But some powerful, deep, animal instinct – he frowned – was at work inside him. He rose smoothly to his feet, buckling on his sword-belt and glanced at the couch. Ellythia Sedai's blankets were empty... why had she arisen, in the middle of the night? Was she in the Ablutions Chamber? He glanced out into the hall. No, she was not... so where was she then?

His Aes Sedai had told him of a practice of these Third Age Sisters and their 'Warders' who had seemingly replaced the Warmen, though they sounded similar... a sort of bonding ritual, using a web- no, they called them _weaves_ now – of _saidar_, that created a link between the Servant-of-All and her Brother-to-Battles... it must be useful, to always know where your Aes Sedai was, in this fashion... a strangely intimate connection, a bit like a marriage. Odd, that in these more primitive times, the Servants of All had managed to come up with something new, that had never been thought of during the Breaking. Well, for all that he seemed to be her Gaidin, Ellythia Sedai would not be 'bonding' _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ anytime soon... _saidin_ or _saidar_, it was all just water off a duck's back to him!

N'aethan padded along the curving hallway that led up to the first level, yawning a bit, staring at the floor in that special way he could, following his Aes Sedai's glowing footprints whilst he wondered about the dream... _most_ odd...

_He was having the nightmare again, the same one he always had, running as fast as he could, all four of his feet barely touching the ground, trying to catch... whatever it was that was always too fast for him... he thought he could see it up there, way ahead of him, and ran faster... he had to stop it, stop it from taking things from Aes Sedai... Then, suddenly, the maze of dark, thorny trees lashed by driving rain through which he was chasing... whatever it was that he could not catch... well, it abruptly dissolved into a green and verdant lawn beneath an immense, spreading oak. The background barking nightmare-noises faded, replaced by sweet bird-song and the buzzing of pollinating bees. _

_Still shaking-off the bad dream, N'aethan lifted his head, glancing around confusedly. It looked a lot like Someshta's Grove. In fact, it _was_ the Grove... and there was Someshta, standing beside his favourite tree, looking oddly apologetic..._

_"Forgive us for bringing you here like this, Blackthorn... but the need was urgent!"_

_N'aethan rose unsteadily to his hind legs – no, his _legs_, what was he thinking of? – then noticed that he was not wearing anything. "I did not know you could do that, sorda..." he muttered, distractedly, trying to remember what it was he had been chasing "...dragging me out of a dream like that..."_

_"It was not I, but another who-" Someshta paused, frowning, the lush vines and leaves of his face drawing down a little. "_What_ did you call me?"_

_"I called you _Someshta_... that _is_ your name, is it not?" N'aethan blinked. There appeared to be someone concealing themselves behind the big oak. A bit of brown robe poking out, perhaps... he could smell someone there, anyway... _

_"Oh... I thought that you said something else..." Someshta paused, leaning his head down a little, listening, then continued; "I have been charged with the task of asking you-"_

_"Why is the Oak Man hiding behind the tree and whispering to you?"_

_"You are not supposed to be able to see him, Blackthorn, but it does not work with you, for some reason. The Oak Man is not allowed to speak to you because of the Precepts, so has asked me to intercede on his..."_

_Someshta paused again as more whispered words were directed towards him._

_"The Oak Man also apologises for pulling you from out of your dream, though it did not appear to be a very enjoyable dream for you, Blackthorn..." more whispering "...certain information is required by his Hornsounder, it seems. He asks; 'what is the name of the Aes Sedai that you serve?' "_

"_Lady Helathia Desiama of the ajah that is the... blue ajah… I _told_ you what her name was, Someshta."_

"_Forgive me, Blackthorn, but human names are so difficult to..." Someshta leaned his great green head down, listening further. "The Oak Man requests that I ask you her current location?"_

"_I told you that _also_, Someshta – she is at Big Brother's phoney tomb! This is where we all are. The Tomb of the Firstborn, mean I."_

"_Oh, you are still there? Well, I did not know, Blackthorn, time moves strangely here, in the Dream... you could have gone to somewhere else by now... we spoke of it many days ago, after all..."_

"_It was only last night, Someshta!"_

_Someshta was not listening to him, had leaned down to receive further instructions from the Sage hiding behind the tree. N'aethan frowned, wondering whether to clothe himself and then deciding not to bother. This was a strange experience. And _honestly_... Someshta hadn't changed! If it wasn't a bloody shrub or a flower, he immediately forgot all about it! _

"_The Oak Man wonders if this Tomb is the monument also known as Bear Rock?"_

"_I don't know! Mayhap it is called that now, but..." _

_N'aethan blinked. Someshta, the tree, presumably the Oak Man who had been hiding behind it, all had vanished, and he found himself standing in an odd maze of thorny trees beneath a grey and lightning-filled sky, rain lashing down. He shivered, and clothed himself in an officer's ceremonial cadin'gai, the nice uniform with the epaulettes like Middle Brother had, which he had never got to wear back in the Wheel World... after a moment, he added a gold-hilted, Heron-mark blade to the ensemble. _

_What was this strange place? What was he doing here? _

_That bloody Oak Man... asking him odd questions on behalf of some Hornsounder, not even having the courtesy to do so to his face because of his silly Tel'aran'rhiod rules, then just dumping him somewhere cold and wet and rainy. Well, those bound to the Horns could be rather… brusque. If it had all even happened... it could just have been some sort of surreal dream, after all. Feeling confused, N'aethan made himself wake up. _

At the top of the stairs, in the empty, echoing Tomb Chamber, N'aethan momentarily disregarded Ellythia Sedai's footprints, which led up one of the ramps, and went to stand in front of Big Brother's statue, the life-size one that was still there. He looked at the Howling-axe. _Those_ blades were not glowing either, but even so... something was wrong. Squinting, he could make out the Wards that stood between the statue, between that which it held... and him. He had no idea what they did. There was only one way to find out, of course... he reached up, with his gloved hands, to take the Weapon... but then lowered them, uncertainly.

* * *

><p>Ellyth could sense a <em>ter'angreal<em>. Her brow furrowed. It was puzzling. She had woken abruptly with the sensation of something being not quite right, had felt herself being drawn to an object of the One Power... her Talent had never _awoken_ her before. It was _not_ one of the _ter'angreal_ in the round room, or any of the others scattered about this place. Perhaps it was the one Naythan had taken from the chest? It was odd, now she could sense four _ter'angreal_ about his person... the new one, whatever it was, the heavy object in the velvet pouch that he had been so loath to show her – well, she would not ask, let him keep his little secrets! – as well as his Shield... the Key... so what was the fourth? It was not that odd blade that could supposedly harm Golems, _that_ was no _ter'angreal_, for all that it seemed to have strange properties... no-doubt it had been made with the One Power, even if it did not utilise it...

Ellyth rose, then glanced at the foot of the couch, and frowned. Naythan was curled up down there, clearly experiencing one of his odd dreams again. His face bore a measure of concern, and he was moving his arms and legs a little. Strange how people looked so much younger whilst they were asleep... but she wished he would cease this sleeping on the floor at her feet! Should she look in the store-room that contained the furniture, for a maidservant's truckle-bed? She sighed, but stole from the room quietly in bare feet, so as not to wake him, and made her way up to the great chamber that contained the statue, drawn by that familiar itching sensation in the back of her mind...

There was no-one about, she could see none of the Aiel... it must be past midnight. Whatever it was, it was above... Ellyth made her way up one of the curving ramps, then ascended the steps, taking a grateful breath of sea air as she did so, though the night breeze was a little brisk, so she pulled her fancloth cloak tighter about her shoulders. There was seemingly nobody up here, which was odd, the Aiel usually mounted a guard... perhaps out of sight, behind a huge stone foot. The Aiel were very good at hiding themselves... unconcernedly, Ellyth walked over to the parapet. She could glimpse the light of a Trolloc fire, further along the cliffs...

And there it was, the _ter'angreal_, the one she had sensed, sitting on the parapet. How had it got here? It was not the one that Naythan had so hurriedly tucked into his pocket, that had felt _new_, as the others he held did. This _ter'angreal_, on the other hand, felt old, very old. And also... evil. A small statue of a bare-breasted woman rearing up on the fish's tail that grew from her hips. She was smiling malevolently, and her hair appeared to be composed of writhing serpents. It was carved of some dark, aged ivory, by the looks of it...

In the corner of her eye a tall figure stepped out of the darkness and Ellyth turned toward the Aielman, wondering why he was wearing a cloak... no, not a cloak. Folded wings. Large eyes staring, cruel mouth gaping, the Draghkar began to croon its vile song – a relentless dirge that became an ear-splitting shriek as flames engulfed it. Ellyth stepped back, eyes narrowed, a hand raised to her nose and mouth against the oily black smoke... why had she not sensed it? She had killed it just in time, before its song took hold of her, stilling the dread sound- which abruptly resumed, though this time from behind her. Turning, knowing it was too late, as another tall, pale figure loomed over her, the weaves of Fire she tried to cast falling apart as the song of the Draghkar settled into her... a duet in fact, since another of the creatures approached from the other side, transfixing her with that undeniable, hypnotic song. Hands at her sides, face slack, feeling a distant regret that it was all over... the closer Draghkar loomed over her, falling silent, whilst the other continued to sing... its red lips spread back from cruel teeth as it prepared to feed, to eat her soul.

Something white and silver howled through the air and impacted against the Draghkar's skull with a wet crunch, whilst at the same time a powerful arm withdrew Ellyth to safety within a bear-like embrace and she felt herself whirled through the air as though in some particularly energetic dance, the other Draghkar swinging into view, falling silent, spreading its wings to escape – she felt the movement through his chest as Naythan swept his arm forward, the other arm that was not cradling her protectively and the strange axe, formerly held by the statue, came back into view, flung through the air with frightening force to impact against the Draghkar's thin chest. The creature's limp and lifeless form was hurled back several spans to strike the dark stone pedestal amidst the cracking of bones, the blades of the axe yet embedded in its flesh.

Ellyth looked up at Naythan. "Thank-you," she said, simply, feeling herself coming back to life. She had been close to death before, of course, but never _that_ close... not that it would have been death, exactly, but something worse, from which death would have been a release.

Naythan nodded distractedly, frowning. "Draghkar were _warded_, Mistress, would have sensed them coming with Shield, else." He looked around. "Where is sentry?" he grumbled, "Shaido make good scouts, but _bad_ at following orders!"

"Naythan?" he glanced down at her, eyes glowing slightly in the gloom. "You... may release me now... Gaidin..." He blinked, then grinned.

"Oh, sorry Aes Sedai!" he exclaimed, unwrapping his arm from about her, "did not want you to get Draghkar brains on dress, so grabbed you out of the way!"

Ellyth smoothed her skirts a little, flushing. So _that_ was what it felt like to have a man's arm around you! She had occasionally wondered... not a particularly romantic context, of course, the crunching of shattered skulls scarcely complimented warm embraces.

"Yes, well, that was very thoughtful of you, Naythan Gaidin." Her dark gaze moved to the axe weapon as Naythan went to retrieve it, yanking the silvery blades from the Draghkar's chest. Blades with fluted holes set in their centres. The weapon was much too large for him, the thick haft the length of a spear in his hands. Though he had used it adeptly enough, of course... "So _that_ is your brother's axe? I _thought_ that it was not part of the statue..."

"Yes Mistress, Howling-axe..." he smiled rather savagely and whirled it around his head a few times. Air howled through the fluted holes, producing a disconcerting moaning sound. "Grabbed it when I heard noise, nothing from Shield so was worried it might be the _Gholam_ come back... but only Draghkar... overkill! Even though warded, were they..." He frowned again, looking around. "Where are Shaido?" he grumbled.

Ellyth glanced at the _ter'angreal_, and shivered. "_That_ was placed here, presumably by one of the Draghkar, to lure me up to this place... and yes, they were definitely warded or I should have sensed them also... and I have a fairly good idea of _who_ warded them." She stared out into the night. "That hag knows we are here."

"Yes, she has been spying, saw her in _Tel'aran'rhiod_, did I..."

"You _saw_ her?" Ellyth frowned. "What is 'telranyod?' "

Naythan blinked, opened his mouth- and the Aiel appeared, veiled and brandishing spears, flowing up the stairs and taking positions all around, staring out into the night. Light eyes, all that could be seen of their faces, flicked momentarily toward the Draghkar corpses, one of which was still burning fiercely.

"Whose turn was it to guard Father's roof?" Naythan demanded.

One of the veiled faces turned toward him, a cold blue eye balanced by a disturbing red one that glowed in the dark a little. Cohradin's voice was muffled, behind the veil. "It was young Tevin who had first watch, _Vron'cor_."

"So where is he?" Naythan sniffed the air, then frowned.

At which, Ellyth realised that there were but five Aiel, not six. After a quick search, they found Tevin behind one of the giant stone feet. The Aiel youth looked peaceful, lying there... if not for the gaping wound in his throat, and all of the blood, he might have been sleeping.

* * *

><p>"<em>Life is a dream – that knows no shade<em>

_Life is a dream – of pain and woe"_

The deeper voices of the Aielmen sang the first part, the higher voices of the Maidens responding with the second. It sounded unbearably sad.

"_A dream from which – we pray to wake_

_A dream from which – we wake and go."_

When the Aiel had ceased their sonorous singing, Ellyth blinked away the tears, squinted as she embraced _saidar_, and set light to the pyre that stood upon the ancient, glass-smooth rock. Comprised of old pieces of broken furniture that had not survived the quaking earth of the Breaking of the World so well as the sung-wood items, the pyre flared briskly to life, hiding the slim, shrouded figure of the youth behind roiling smoke and orange flame. The Aiel preferred to bury their dead standing upright, facing the sunrise, she had heard, but that was scarcely possible here, and they had seemed to approve of honouring Tevin in the wetland manner...

As the flames licked higher, Naythan stepped solemnly forward and raised his fiddle. He was wearing a pair of supple leather gloves that had been rolled-up inside the instrument case, and the music he produced this time was certainly not tuneless or discordant... a slow, keening dirge that plucked at the heartstrings and rose into the sky amidst the smoke and ash of the pyre. A gentle rain began to fall, as though the vast statue that had once loomed above yet stood, weeping softly down upon them.

* * *

><p><strong>Part IV: <strong>_**Sovin**_

The Draghkar swooped past, shrieking, then dipped its wings, wheeling away. Cohradin drew smoothly and put an arrow through one of those leathery pinions, tearing a large hole in the web of skin. The Draghkar shrieked again, spiralling down toward the sea. Cohradin smiled with satisfaction. A difficult shot, one he could not have made when he had but one eye, he suspected. Well, now he had two again. The Draghkar hit the waves with a large splash, thrashing and struggling in the water.

"Do you think that the Draghkar knows how to swim?" Chassin wondered.

"It does not look as though it does, my brother," Cohradin commented. They watched the waves for a while, but the Draghkar's head did not reappear. Foolish of it, to fly so close, the others were hanging back, or lurking over at the cliffs with the rest of the Shadow-wrought... Chassin shrugged, and went to join Gerom and the Maidens by the big stone feet. They all had their bows at the ready, also.

Cohradin raised his gaze from the seas, staring across the intervening water at the cliffs instead. He had found that if he closed his blue eye and squinted with the red one, it would make things that were far away appear sharper, bigger... as did those looking-glasses that the Treekillers made... and sometimes, small squiggles that looked like numbers would appear at the edge of his vision, also... it was odd.

The cliffs were black with Shadowspawn, twenty hundreds of the Trollocs easily, a great many Myrddraal galloping their dark steeds back and forth, Draghkar flocking above... a flock in truth, he did not think he had ever seen so many of the creatures in the same place, even up in the Blight. Well, now there was one less of them than there had been, at least. Tevin would have been pleased by that. Pleased also that the Aes Sedai and the Nightwatcher had avenged him, on that black night a week ago, when he had been waked.

Cohradin blamed himself. They had thought that they were safe here, had relaxed their guard... and the youth should not have been set to watch the roof on his own, he was too young, too inexperienced. But he had insisted on being accorded the honour of guarding the Nightwatcher's Roof, the same as the rest of them, just as he had chosen to carry the spear. Life was but a dream, after all, and young Tevin had been woken from his by a Draghkar's song, it would seem.

Cohradin hoped that another of the bat-winged Shadow-twisted would fly too close, but the others were keeping their distance. He notched another of Tevin's arrows to the string of his bow anyway, just in case. He was using the dead youth's arrows to kill Draghkar – he had slain five, so far – because he felt guilty, and also because he thought that it was what his sister-son would have wanted.

Cohradin winced. He was _not_ looking forward to giving Alindhra the bad news about her boy, when they returned to Wet Sands, he had promised her that he would look after the lad when Tevin had decided that he wanted to be _Sovin Nai_. His first-sister had other sons, daughters also, but would not be best-pleased at Cohradin having failed in this charge, when he brought her the ill tidings... he would have to tell Carandhra about her boy Andalin, also, the youth who had been waked in the dance with the horse-riders back in Shienar. Cohradin winced again. The mothers tended to be even angrier with him than the _widows_... it was not easy, being the Leader of a Warrior Society and having to perform these solemn duties.

Though Cohradin was cheered by the consideration that the prospect of him ever returning to his Hold to deliver these grim notices was looking distinctly unlikely... the rest of the Shadow-wrought could not fly over to here as the Draghkar did, and he doubted that they knew how to swim either... but they would attack nonetheless, using the very means that their quarry had employed in crossing the water to this Hold. Their intent was clear. The forces of the Shadow were building their _own_ 'rafts' over there.

Cohradin frowned, his red-tinged gaze moving to the area of sloping beach below the cliffs. There were Shadowrunners down there, roughly-dressed wetlanders engaged in nailing and binding together driftwood logs. And that youth was there also, the one with the dark red hair who dressed like a Lost One for some reason... he was not like the others, he moved like a killer... and he seemed to be in charge of these Darkfriends. Manda said she had seen him kill one of them, though was unsure why. _Shadowrunners_. Cohradin very badly wanted to go down there and wake them all, but did not know how to swim any more than the Draghkar had. The youth glanced up, as though sensing that he was being watched. Cold blue eyes stared up at the distant figure at the top of the sea-mount for a moment, then the Shadowrunning Lost One or whatever he was slid a dark-bladed knife from his belt and mimed drawing it slowly across his throat. He smiled.

Cohradin scowled. _Taunting _him? He had killed men for less. That knife... it looked to be forged of the same metal as a Myrddraal's sword and when the youth brandished it, more of those tiny number-things had appeared at the edge of his vision. He would ask the Nightwatcher what they meant. Another Draghkar swooped in closer and Cohradin pivoted, drew the fletching smoothly back to his ear – but the creature exploded in flames before he could loose, tumbling down to the sea trailing a line of smoke. The other Draghkar turned away, flapping back to the cliffs to join their brethren flocking about over there.

"So they are keeping their distance now... good," the Aes Sedai murmured, joining him, "they seem to have received the message." Then, she glanced down at the foot of the cliffs, shading her eyes and frowning with disgust. "I see that those filthy Darkfriends are engaged in the building of more rafts, yes?"

Cohradin nodded, angrily. He did not like Shadowrunners any more than the Aes Sedai did... they who had waked his kin whilst he hid with his baby sister, well, they had been hunted and slain by old Sadora and the other Wise Ones... but often had he wished he could bring those Shadowrunners back to life, that he might kill them all himself!

"They were able to save the nails, perhaps, but little else," Cohradin muttered.

The Nightwatcher had been seeing to it that the Shadowrunners needed to build _more_ rafts. On most nights he had been swimming over there and setting fire to them, he had done so last night... Cohradin had seen the flames of the burning rafts himself, though _Vron'cor_ had been gone longer than he usually was. They lowered a rope when he whistled, but it had taken him a time to climb it because he had been wounded... it seemed that the Shadow-wrought were tired of having their rafts burned, and had been lying in wait... it seemed that there were too many of them over there for even the Nightwatcher to defeat.

If only _Vron'cor's_ brother-heroes had _also_ returned in time for the Final Dance... the extremely large brother with the axe that made a howling sound, or the other brother who carried the spear and did not need eyes to see because his ears could hear a snake hiss from as far away as Forbidden Shara! To Dance the Spears beside such as they... what a battle that would be! But the Nightwatcher's brothers had both been waked in the War of the One Power, it seemed. They had not been bound to the Horn of Valere... they would not be returning.

The Aes Sedai had been very angry at the Nightwatcher's disobedience and had made _Vron'cor_ swear an oath to not go over there and burn any more rafts as it was too dangerous, so the activities of the Shadowrunners would now continue unhampered, Cohradin supposed. They would be coming soon... perhaps even today. Well, this place was well-defensible, even by the standards of an Aiel Hold, which it was not. Cohradin was looking forward to the Shadow-wrought's efforts to climb the cliffs in the face of their arrows (though they were running low) and the chunks of rock they had been gathering... though there was one aspect of the coming battle that perturbed him somewhat...

As if sensing the tenor of his thoughts, the Aes Sedai asked;

"Have there been any further sightings of the Hag, Master Aiel?"

"No, Aes Sedai. I will send a Maiden to tell you if I see her again, as we agreed." The Aes Sedai nodded, frowning, before turning and gliding off toward the steps in that glidey way of hers. Ellythia Desiama certainly detested this old Darkfriend 'hag' who could channel, she who had sent her Draghkar to kill the Aes Sedai. Apparently, she was some sort of Shadowrunning Wise One who used the One Power to kill and flew through the air in a basket... Cohradin had seen her do so himself, in the distance, flying about beneath those flapping creatures that bore her aloft, directing her forces... like an evil old witch, from the stories. Cohradin scowled. Though he feared but one thing and it was not _witches_, only a fool did not feel a little cautious when it came to the One Power... well, they had an Aes Sedai on their side, so _let_ her come! Red-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ would be only too glad to veil himself, to go forth and dance with her lightnings!

* * *

><p>Ellyth descended the ramp slowly, her head spinning a little... the Draghkar had been rather far away and she had probably overly vented her frustration and anger on it, the fireball had not needed to be quite <em>that<em> hot and large to kill the vile creature. She could feel tears gathering in her eyes as well, and blinked them back. Of late she had found herself weeping as much for the Aiel youth as her Warder... he had only been a boy, had died defending her, as dear Atual had... his fellow Knife Hands, the Maidens as well, they had taken Tevin's death with what seemed an almost stoic indifference. They did not seem to mourn, as she understood the word, to them it seemed that violent death was just something that those who carried the spear anticipated, even welcomed... why, they did not seem to care if they lived or died!

In fact, the Aiel were every bit as alien and strange to her as a certain disobedient fellow who had spent the last three-and-a-half thousand years sleeping inside of a _ter'angreal_-box! Ellyth paused at where the ramp opened out into the large, domed chamber, eyes narrowing. And there he was. Up and out of bed again. The chamber was darker now, the glowing crystal in the roof had begun to fail.

Naythan was standing, looking up at the statue of his brother... he turned at her approach, favouring his right leg, which had splints and bandages bound to it, bowing stiffly. She noted that he was holding the destructive, tube-shaped device, leaning on it like a stick. Well, he _needed_ to lean on something, given the state he was in!

"What are you doing up?" Ellyth scolded, "you are supposed to be _resting_ that leg, yes?"

"Does not bother me overmuch, Mistress. Hate lying around in bed, do I..."

"Hate obeying the orders of your Aes Sedai, more like! I _told_ you to not swim over there again, _of course_ they were waiting for you! You are lucky to be alive, your poor leg looked as though it would have to be _amputated_ when you came climbing back up the rope..." He scowled. "And stop scowling! It makes your eyes look most unattractive, not to mention disconcerting! And they are usually quite pretty eyes, yes?" Ellyth blinked. Why had she said that? This situation was getting to her also. She must remain calm. Serene. She was Aes Sedai...

"It was that _crone_," Naythan was muttering, "laid trap for me, did she! She has much lost knowledge, old weapons of the Shadow... that siren-_ter'angreal_ she used to lure you, Mistress, that is one... but did not think she would have..." he frowned. "No word in the Low... a device that lies beneath the ground and when you step on it..." he rubbed his leg, frowning. "_Tsag!_" he growled. More Old Tongue cursing, doubtless.

"Well, I have ample reason to despise the woman myself... her name is Arachnae Kirikil, by the way, though I rather doubt that is her _real_ name."

"Would like to sink my teeth into her throat, Mistress!"

"Yes, well... actually, I must admit I feel the same way. Perhaps the opportunity will be afforded to one or other of us, before long. Now, _back to bed!_"

Naythan shook his head like an obstinate child, his pale hair – almost collar-length now – whisking back and forth, his large eyes narrowing, pointy teeth flashing. "But Mistress, the Hag has hurt my leg and tried to kill you – she has made me _extremely_ _angry!_" He raised the tube-device, swaying a little on his bandaged, splinted leg, and pointed it in the direction of the cliffs. "And unlucky for her, there is Charger here! Lightning-lance has _full _charge now! I will show her that she is not the _only_ one with old weapons from War of the Shadow! There are _other_ ways to destroy their rafts than tinder and flint, I so assure you! And if the Hag shows her beaky, wrinkly, nasty face, then make her dance with _my_ lightnings, will I!"

Ellyth noted that Naythan, before disobeying her by getting dressed and coming upstairs, had also buckled on his sword _and_ had that big four-bladed Power-wrought axe strapped to his back – he should be lying on the sung-wood couch whilst his shattered leg mended... but looked as if he thought he was going off to the wars instead! Why did so simple a concept as 'convalescence' so fully elude their admittedly dim understanding, every single bloody time? It just made more work for whichever poor woman was attempting to nurse them back to health. _Men! _

"If I let you stay up here for a _little_ while longer, will you agree to go back to bed?" she suggested, in the patient tones one reserved for very young children and male invalids. He frowned, thinking about it, lowering the lance and leaning on it once more. Ellyth could see that she would have to provide further incentive. "You may use your... your 'lightning-lance' against the Shadow-spawn when they attempt to cross to this place, in that wise a goodly amount of them may drown. I am sure that the Aiel will appreciate your aid, they complain that they are running out of arrows."

"_Arrows!_" Naythan muttered, disparagingly. Then looked up at the statue of his older brother again. "Wish _he_ was here to stand with us..." he mused, "we could use a Hero right now..." he glanced over a wide shoulder and grinned, savagely; "Mistress, I tell you true; Big Brother would have gone over there, his eyes shining with the Light, laughing and whirling his Howling-axe over his head like he always did, and the Shadow-wrought... he would have picked his teeth with their bones!"

Ellyth blinked. It was quite an heroic image, certainly. "Well, he is _not_ here to stand with us," she stated, wondering if she could ask the Aielmen to pick Naythan up and _carry_ him back to bed? She gazed up at the statue, the looming giant with a face of stone, his shining eyes, the laughing mouth. "Though I would that he were, also." Well, she had said that he could stay up here a _while_ longer, at least... "you said that you would tell me the tale, of how your brother died... it seems a fitting occasion..?"

Naythan eyed her for a moment, then nodded. Leaning heavily on his 'lance' he limped over to the statue, retrieved the Power-wrought axe from where it hung against his broad back, reached up and reverently replaced it in the marble hands that had held it for so long. He turned, sitting awkwardly at the statue's feet, his injured leg stuck out straight. Ellyth perched upon the edge of the empty _ter'angreal_-box, smoothing her skirts, regarding him with a dark, perceptive gaze. Cobalt-blue eyes returned this gaze, glowing a little in the gloom, eyes that had seen things that had been dead and dust three millennia gone, whilst a low, husky voice began to speak;

"I was not there when it happened, I was just a small boy and yet served Father, not Latra Sedai and the War Ajah... but Middle Brother was there, so I will tell you what he told me, when I asked him about what happened to Elder Brother..."

Naythan's voice abruptly changed, becoming hollow and whispery;

"_Younger Brother, here is what happened – one day_..."

Ellyth jumped. _More mimicry!_ That must be what Naythan's disquieting other brother had sounded like... he had a real talent for replicating the voices of others, not to mention their mannerisms... he was something of a copycat... and even his Aes Sedai was not safe, seemingly!

_"What are you doing, Master Aiel?"_

_Returning from the 'roof of the Roof,' as the Aiel insisted on calling it, from where she had been fruitlessly searching the waves for some sort of ship she might signal to, though the likelihood was small since the various trade routes to Bandar Eban lay well to the south, Ellyth was startled to hear a voice haranguing the Aiel... that sounded very much like _her_ voice! It was echoing up to her from below..._

"_Master Aiel! I have repeatedly requested that you _not_ Dance the Spears in just your smallclothes! The sight of it is alarming to me!"_

_A gale of Aielish laughter greeted this. Ellyth scowled, and stalked down the ramp. It was _not_ exactly like her voice, of course, though pitched high it was still too deep, but the phrasing and intonation were alarmingly familiar! Some of the words and terms used, even, if grotesquely exaggerated for comedic effect, of course! _

"_How dare you laugh at an Allservant of the angry ajah! I shall perhaps destroy you with my fires, yes? No, that is too harsh... I shall, in stead, administer a good spanking with the One Power!"_

_More laughter, certainly coming from the Aielmen... they laughed at the oddest things... though it was good to hear them laughing she supposed, even if it was at her, the death of the Aiel youth had made them more than a little morose, naturally._

"_No!" she heard Cohradin wheeze, "please do not... do that... Aes Sedai!"_

"_I shall, Master Aiel! I shall indeed! Prepare to be punished you wicked Sneaky Shaido!"_

_Where the ramp opened out into the curving wall of the great, domed chamber, Ellyth poked her head suspiciously around the corner... and stared. The words were emerging from _Naythan's_ mouth – he was standing on the carved marble 'tomb' like some sort of Gleeman on a platform of raised wood in an Inn, had sucked in his cheeks a little and raised his eyebrows – just like Shrina always did when _she_ impersonated her! – and the voice, it was eerily, uncannily like hers! Cohradin and the other Aielmen were practically rolling on the floor at his feet, tears streaming down their faces as Naythan glared, shaking his fist at them;_

"_For failing me in the Age of Legends, you must be spanked severely, yes? You naughty boys! Now, pull down your britches and assume the-"_

"_Ahem!" _

_Naythan looked up at her, his mouth snapping shut. He attempted a smile, but it looked rather sickly... Cohradin leapt to his feet, as did the other Aielmen. "Sovin Nai," he commanded, "we will... go to... somewhere else!" The Aiel fled up the opposite ramp with alacrity. _

_Ellyth glared after them. Cowards! She advanced on Naythan, smiling a thin smile. "Were you _imitating_ me, Gaidin?" she enquired, dangerously. He slipped down from his perch on the carved marble wall, and stood before her, somewhat penitent._

"_Um... yes, Mistress... a little bit... sorry! Was just a joke..."_

_Ellyth bent a cold eye on him... but then clearly startled Naythan by throwing back her head and laughing, her ringing mirth filling the chamber. _

"_Naythan, you really are the most _infuriating... ridiculous... absurd_..." she shook her head. Words rarely failed her... but they did this time!_

"_Mistress is not angry with me?"_

"_I did not say _that_. What penalty should be imposed on a faithless Warder who mocks his Aes Sedai behind her back? You mentioned _spanking_, I believe..?"_

_Naythan blinked. "Well, if you insist, Mistress..."_

"_Of course I am not going to spank you! Apart from anything else, I have no wish to put bruises upon my hand... and besides, I am not bloody _Cadsuane!_ By the by, if you imagine that _I_ am a difficult Aes Sedai to serve, then consider yourself lucky that a certain 'Mistress Melaidhrin' did not awaken you! _She_ would not have stood for any of your nonsense, your bottom would be black-and-blue on an almost permanent basis in company with her! And serve you right, too! Impersonating me!" _

"_Forgiveness... Mistress is not... difficult..."_

_Ellyth shook her head, trying not to smile, "why, when I heard the voice, I almost thought it _was_ me! You have a wonderful gift for mimicry..." _

_Naythan was looking relieved. "Mistress is a good sport! And you are right, it is faithless, should not mock, except to face – no, not even then! It is just that Sin'aethan Shadar Cor grows bored with little to do, he likes to make jests and after what happened to young Tevin, thought that the Shaido might need cheering-up... they are a good audience, the Warmen never laughed at my voices!" He blinked, considering. "Though they just... never laughed. At anything."_

"_Well, if it is good for morale, I cannot entirely disapprove... just so long as you do not do it again... smallclothes indeed!"_

"Sorry Mistress, did I startle you?"

"It... it was just that strange voice you used... it was rather disconcerting..."

Naythan eyed Ellyth with his eerie eyes and then quickly explained, in his real voice, which was rather pleasant (he sang, did he not?) and _not_ the scary voice which certainly was _not_ pleasant; "by-the-by, Mistress, this voice I do of Middle Brother… imagine it _one-hundred times_ more disturbing – and then, you will _still_ not even come _close_ to what he sounded like! He was a good person (if a bit sarcastic sometimes) and he was my Brother and I loved him and if he had been capable of it then he would have loved me back, I am sure… but even so, there were times when even I, _even_ _Father_, could not stand to be in the same room as him! _Especially_ when he was angry with the Shadow, which he often was..." Naythan shrugged, and grinned.

"But no matter how disturbing we all found Middle Brother to be… well… the Shadowmen always thought Middle Brother was _much_ worse than _they_ were! He _really _disturbed them! You would not think a Shadowman could _be_ disturbed, I did not, before I went to the Last Days, think that it could be… but Shadowmen _always_ found Middle Brother to be _very_ disturbing to them… very disturbing indeed. He used to chase them for many leagues! Him and Hound. He _always_ caught them, too! Middle Brother _really_ hated the Shadow (he was very good at hating things, if they were Shadowy!) and perhaps even _Father_ did not hate the Shadow so much as he – but if there was one part of the Shadow that he maybe hated just a bit more than the rest, maybe even slightly more than he hated the Dark One, even, then it was Shadowmen. Middle Brother couldn't stand the things! They _offended_ him, just by being alive! If it even _is_ living, just going around loathing everything all of the time, including yourself… _I_ would not want to live like that…"

And Naythan laughed his odd mewling laughter, for a moment. Ellyth shivered a little. It was rather draughty in here, she thought, pulling her fancloth closer over her shoulders. Naythan was nodding to himself, smiling slightly, his cobalt eyes looking a little vague – a bit like Renn's! – clearly reminiscing over some pleasant memory... though she doubted that an ordinary person would have found it quite so pleasant! Ellyth coughed pointedly, Naythan blinked, focusing on her again.

"Did you say 'hound' Naythan?" she enquired.

"Yes, Lighthound!"

"Who was… lighthound?"

"The Hound of Light not a person, he was a dog." Naythan frowned. "A _very big_ dog. Used to fight the Shadow alongside my Brother and I, did he."

"You fought alongside a... but I thought that you did not care for dogs?"

Naythan scowled slightly at the thought of dogs, his eyes slitting very briefly.

"Certainly I do not, Mistress, nasty smelly things that growl at you or try to lick your face with their stinky wet tongues... I would rather a dog growl at me than lick me with its tongue… I would far rather a dog _bite_ me in the leg than put its nasty slimy tongue on me, I so assure you!" There it was again, that odd sense of… fastidiousness, about him. "But dogs do not much care for me either Mistress, they do not like the way I smell... Hound most especially!"

"Indeed?"

"In fact, when I defied Father and went to join Middle Brother at the War, I encountered Hound near to the camp and he did not remember me from the _Collam Doon_ where he was bred, did not know whose Brother I was – he chased me as though _I_ were a Shadowdog!"

"Goodness… whatever did you do?"

"Not much you _could_ do if Hound decided to chase you… except _run!_ Run _fast!_ But I was lucky that I saw in front of me the… yes." Naythan was blushing slightly, Ellyth noted.

"What happened, Naythan? Did you escape?"

"Yes Mistress… still here, am I not? If Hound had caught, would not be!"

"So how did you elude the large dog?"

Naythan lowered his strange eyes. "Climbed up a... a tree, did I," he muttered.

Ellyth stared for a moment, then began to laugh! It was such an amusing image, her Shieldman forced to swarm up the side of a tree to elude an enormous… _hound!_ She had not laughed in this fashion for a very long time, it felt… it felt _good!_

Naythan glared at her. "Not funny, Mistress! Was up there all day, with Hound walking around the tree looking up at me, growling and snarling… wanted a pack of Darkhounds to come along so Hound would chase them while I escaped!"

"Escaped from the tree! Oh, you poor thing!"

Naythan grinned. He had certainly not heard his Aes Sedai laughing before... well, not like _this_ at least! Why, he had probably thought her incapable of it!

"Was lucky it was a _big _tree, great big oak… if a birch or a willow, Hound would have just pushed it over and eaten me! Did not know there was anything that could run near so fast as me… 'til I met the Lighthound! Eventually Middle Brother heard me shouting (had very good ears, fortunately) and came to take accursed Hound away... first day of War, had to be rescued from tree by Brother... embarrassing!"

Ellyth was still giving vent to peals of merriment, Naythan grinning at her, shaking his head, not seeming to mind that it was _him_ being laughed at…

"Middle Brother thought it was funny too, Mistress..."

"Stuck up there all day with a _dog_ pacing about below…" Ellyth managed to splutter, "having to be rescued from a tree... dear-me, Naythan!"

_Poor puss!_

* * *

><p>N'aethan had not finished the story of how Elder Brother died, well, he had not even <em>started<em> it, really, he had become a little side-tracked after all, enjoying remembering the old days when he was still the 'other Lightborn' instead of just the Last Lightborn. Hound came back from Shayol Ghul that time, though he was badly wounded, but Middle Brother did not, of course… none of them did. A thoroughly successful plot of the Shadow.

_although I hate the Shadow with every fibre of my being, I still cannot hate the Shadow as much as you did, beloved dead Middle Brother, no-one could, not even Father..._

(something _else_ they used to argue about, who hated the Shadow more and why, with gruesome illustrations of how they had proved they hated the Shadow… he just used to pick up his plate and go and eat with old Ledrin in the kitchen, and they did not even notice… family!)

N'aethan glanced up at the statue that loomed over where he sat.

_...and I may not be able to hit the Shadow as hard as you could, beloved also-dead Elder Brother, I may not be able to do what you did to the Shadow, Brothers, since Father made me for different things than you, gave me different skills, different weapons..._

(he was going to have to show his Aes Sedai what he kept under the gloves sooner or later, but would wait until she asked... she was not stupid, he knew she must be wondering...)

_...but even so, I will do my best, in your memory and that of Father, to tear the Shadow, to give it such wounds that the name of Lightborn will bring them nightmares for so long as the Wheel turns…for as long as the sun shines._

Ellythia Sedai was still giggling, shaking her head, wiping daintily at her eyes with her sleeve... it was good to see her laugh like this, even if it was at _him_, just like Kiam always used to… those bloody _tcheran_ games! Aes Sedai did not laugh enough, they needed to remind themselves that while they had become _more_ than human, it did not mean that they were _not_ human, that they did not need to laugh and cry just like everyone else did… even him. Perhaps, _especially_ him.

And in his head, N'aethan completed the story, summoning the echoing, whispery voice of Middle Brother... it had been at the wedding, he recalled... it was the only wedding he ever got to attend, but that was alright. He had been the Best Man! Or the 'Best Monster' as his Brother had put it, in that sarcastic way of his...

_"I am still not entirely sure why I am doing this."_

_"Because you are in love with the woman who you have asked to be your wife, of course!" Tro chided his Brother. Taw frowned. He looked very smart in his officer's dress-uniform, his Heron-mark blade slung at his back, a cloth-of-gold scarf tied across where his eyes would have been if he had them, instead of one of the boring plain white ones he usually wore. _

_"You have been reading too many foolish romances, Little Brother. I do not know how to love things, I only know how to kill them. And she asked me to marry her, not the other way around... the woman thinks she is one of the Da'shain!"_

_"Well, you become strangely animated whenever you speak of Arietta Sedai – I suppose that I may use her name since she and I are to become kin in about another three-hundred chimes – and I am sure that-"_

_"Only three-hundred? When you were out there, did you see Shen an Sora?"_

_"Yes, the Lifeband have formed two long lines so that you may walk betwixt their drawn swords, a pleasing post-wedding avenue down which you may conduct your radiant wife to the armoured jo-car that has got all the ribbons tied on it..."_

_Taw eyed him eyelessly, with suspicion. "Have you been drinking? You are unusually verbose, Little Brother..."_

_"Don't look at me like that! I have had a glass or two of wine, perhaps – it is a bloody wedding! One is _supposed_ to drink wine!"_

_"You are too young to drink wine. You are only nine."_

"_I am ten now!"_

"_That is still too young to drink wine without water in it. I shall tell Father."_

_"Snitch!"_

_"Brat. Do you have the ring? Show to me the ring."_

_"Ring, Middle Bro? What ring?"_

_"That is most amusing, Little Brother. Perhaps I shall tear out your throat with my hands and drink all of your blood?"_

_"Oh, _that_ ring! Why here it is, in my pocket..."_

_"Do not make jokes, this is a serious occasion. It is strange, I am about to become the husband of an Aes Sedai and I almost feel something... if I had feelings, then I think that I would say that I feel... nervous."_

_"Nervous, _you?_ That is like a skunk complaining about the bad smell! Though you do look even paler than you usually do, if that is any help..." _

_"It is not... ask me something, Little Brother, something to take my mind off this dreadful mistake that I am about to make..."_

_"Don't be silly, you know you like her, well, the two of you seem to enjoy arguing about things with each other, that is a good start in a marriage, surely... and she certainly likes _you_, though I can't imagine _why_. She is always laughing at your tasteless jests, in any case. But females are strange creatures, it would seem, you never know _what_ will grab them! Stop glaring at me like that, Middle Bro, it is off-putting. Hmm. Ask you something... alright. How did Elder Brother die? Well, I know how, but _why_ did he die? Not the stupid 'he was a big Hero' official story that the Information Ajah put out... and not Father's angry ranting about the War Ajah manipulating 'little-Wan' and testing him to destruction... I mean, what _really_ happened." _

_Taw looked down at him for a long moment, his eyeless gaze strangely all-encompassing, then smiled, coldly. _

"_Younger Brother, here is what happened – one day, our Big Brother woke up, looked outside, saw that the weather was nice and sunny... and decided that today would be a good day to go to Shayol Ghul and kill the Dark One." Taw's smile became colder, if anything. "By himself. I was in the Blight and did not hear about it until he was already there. I received my orders – the Dragon wanted him brought out and saved, if at all possible… and if not… well, you know what happened, there is a new valley at Thakan'dar which there was not before Elder Brother went there. You will think I am just saying this because we do not get along, but Father seemed more concerned about my retrieving the Weapon than his Son, when he contacted me. _

"_I went with Wolf to the co-ordinates I had been given and collected the Device from an Aes Sedai who had volunteered to deliver it, a brave man from the Immortals of the Light (they are all gone now, they were all brave men) who threw the Device immediately to me, just before the enemy could track his Gateway and use it to destroy him … of course, even without the danger, I could not use a Gateway in this fashion to go to Shayol Ghul, you know what happens to us when we walk through them… and then… Wolf ran as fast as he could the whole way, but still…"_

_Taw had told Tro that Wan was ten times tougher than him, which would have made him a hundred times tougher than Tro, said the Light shone from his eyes when he fought the Shadow, that their Big Brother really had been a Hero… like in one of the ancient myths, able to perform all those feats of strength and bravery and skill (though not intellect, fortunately) someone who was actually physically capable of doing these things – like the time when he fought the enormous bear with his bare hands (and then cried when he killed it!)_

"_He really was a Hero... why do you think he took the name 'Ereklass' and wore that great bearskin over his shoulders – to look more like a Hero! He loved the story of Lionskin, after all… ' they _always_ dress like that,' he told me! He looked like someone out of a Legend, and he could do legendary things, not just in stories, but in real life… because of Father, Elder Brother was the real thing!"_

_But with one fatal flaw, that had led to overconfidence. Overconfidence had killed more people than every blade ever forged in Thakan'dar. It had killed Wan-of-the-Howling-Axe... Firstborn... Ereklass Snowpelt... their Brother. _

"_Elder Brother was a fine man and a fine Brother to me and would have been a fine Brother to you also, Younger Brother, had you met him… I do not, therefore, wish to malign his memory, though what I am about to say about him he admitted of himself to me many times, after he had done something ill-conceived and destructive... but this is something I must tell you that may be important to your own survival in the War with the Shadow that never ends… a hard lesson, if you will. Believe me when I tell you that if I was able to love anything then in addition to loving you and old Ledrin and Hound and perhaps Father... certainly the strange Aes Sedai who I am about to marry... in any case, were I able to love, I would have loved my Big Brother very much indeed and I hope that his Thread (if we Lightborn even have souls, which in all likelihood we do not) will forgive me for saying what I am about to say, but you know what happened and this is why it happened…"_

And then, Middle Brother smiled that odd, thin smile he always smiled just before he said something a bit sardonic…

"_...for it must nonetheless be said, in light of Elder Brother's single-handed assault on the gates of Shayol Ghul… well… as Father has no doubt, in his charming way, told you of our Big Brother… his problem was always that, like many a Hero before him, he was just never very bright."_

* * *

><p>Naythan was smiling sadly, eyes half-closed, eyelids flickering a little. Ellyth watched him as she slowly regained her composure – trapped in a tree by the doggy! – her dark, liquid eyes taking his measure...<p>

"What are you thinking about, Naythan?"

"A wedding, Mistress. My Brother's wedding."

"You think about things very fast," Ellyth stated, "do you not, Naythan?" Naythan blinked, as though returning to the tomb of his brother from somewhere very far away… somewhere very long ago... "In fact, you also learn very fast," she added.

"Yes Mistress," agreed Naythan.

"Oh, enough Mistressing! _Ellythia_."

"Yes... Helathia Sedai."

"When we are alone together there is no need to preserve the public formality of Aes Sedai and Gaidin. I should like you to call me 'Ellythia,' or at least _attempt to_, without the 'Sedai' on such occasions – 'less long it takes to say,' yes?"

Naythan blinked, as she spoke his own words back to him, then grinned. "It does indeed…" his face twisted a little "..._Hellythia?_"

"Close enough, I suppose. There, that was not too hard, was it? Though I have never cared for my full name... my friends call me Ellyth… and I would like us to be friends… Naythan."

Naythan looked a little startled, but nodded gravely. "Hellyth Sedai..." He spoke the name softly, testing it on his tongue.

"Just _Hellyth!_ I mean, _Ellyth!_"

Naythan looked uncomfortable. "Sorry, but even Kiam Sedai I never called 'Kiam' to her face… just not done, with Aes Sedai…"

"Very well, Naythan Gaidin, if you prefer a certain level of formality then I shall not argue. My father always told me that those from another place... and in your case, I would suppose, another _time_... will have a different way of speaking and behaving, and a wise man… a wise _woman_, should accept this. You are from another world, another Age. It is not easy for you I know, but you have aided me greatly, I think that I would be dead several times over if not for your… shielding of my person from danger. My father has a favourite saying that I shall not trouble you with, since it partly concerns dogs, but it speaks of repaying like with like. I owe you something in return for your efforts – in fact, I feel that I might even owe you an apology..."

Naythan began to open his mouth-

"I have not finished!" she snapped.

-he closed it again. Ellyth smoothed her skirts and brow both, then continued in more even tones;

"Naythan... these last weeks have been a very trying time for me, I... I lost my Warder and, well, there were the Shadowspawn pursuing us, after all... the walking... the head-aches... the _Aiel_... though I am being uncharitable, I suppose, they have been of great service also... and that poor boy... if we ever do return to the White Tower (though that is looking distinctly unlikely) I mean to see that his sacrifice is fully acknowledged with a letter from the Amyrlin Seat to his family at the very least, even if I have to twist the objectionable bloody woman's arm up behind her back to make her write it!" Naythan blinked, and Ellyth realised that she had strayed from the point, somewhat... "yes, well... the essence of it is that... in consequence of these trials, I feel that I may have been a little... brusque with you, at times... and that on occasion I might even have behaved in a rather... _shrewish_ fashion, in fact..."

"Hellyth Sedai is not shrew!" Naythan stated loyally, eyes wide.

"Thank-you for saying so... that is very good of you... but, well, I certainly have not been at my _best_, and... I should like to apologise if I have unfairly taken my anger and frustration out upon you, Naythan Gaidin." He was looking as shocked as he had when she had presented him with dear Atual's sword...

"Aes Sedai has never apologised to _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ before! Did not know Aes Sedai _could_ apologise! _Unnecessary_, I so assure you... discomforting, also... and assuredly, first to admit that have an annoying way about me, do I! You are not the first Aes Sedai to notice, and become irritated with Shieldman... not by a long way! Kiam Sedai was _often_ angry with me, as were many of the War-sisters and even Elisane Sedai (who had the patience of the Lord Ghoetam himself) shouted at me once – very angry, was she, that time!" He shrugged, smiling. "It is my way, unfortunately, my manner..." the smile became rueful; "...the nature of the beast."

"You are no _beast_, Naythan."

"Then you are no _shrew_, Mistress!"

A pleasant, oddly companionable silence reigned for a while, after this, in which they smiled at each other with a certain understanding. Ellyth did not particularly wish to break this silence. But she felt the need to speak further;

"Naythan, I am aware that you were born, perhaps even made, for the purpose of serving the Aes Sedai, but as dear Atual would have told you readily when he gossiped with you behind my back (I think that he would have liked you… eventually...) well, Atual would doubtless have stated in no uncertain terms that serving an Aes Sedai can often be a rather thankless task."

Naythan looked surprised… and then solemn. "I have never noticed _that_."

"Then you are either deaf, blind or a liar, Master Shieldman!"

Naythan grinned, chuckling, and Ellyth smiled also – there, _she_ had made a jest! Did he think that he and Cohradin were the only people trapped in this Tomb who possessed a sense of humour?

"Honour to Serve, Aes Sedai. Always." He struggled to his feet, though she waved at him not to, bowing stiffly... then stood rigidly upright, leaning on his lance.

"The service of a _man_ such as yourself honours me also," Ellyth responded politely. Naythan caught the emphasis that she placed on the word, and blinked. "But then, you are more than an ordinary man."

Naythan shook his head in refutation. "_Not_ human. Am a Construct. Was made… constructed, by Father, to protect… to Shield, against the _Gholam_. And other things also, but chiefly that."

"I still do not really understand what a _gholam_ is, but I have seen the look in your eyes when you speak of it – when you look at the weapon that you use against it, also..." He had other weapons, he had said. Weapons he was born with...

Ellyth's dark eyes moved to his gloved hands momentarily. Naythan blinked, then moved one of these hidden hands to the rear of his belt. He took something out of a pouch and held it out to her. "Here, see – Gholam-stabber!" Ellyth took the braided handle from his gloved hand. It was surprisingly heavy. "You touch that there – careful, do not get your thumb in the way – I did once... _ou'ch!_" Ellyth pressed the stud, and a narrow, dull-silver blade shot out of one end, transforming the handle into a knife. A rather _small_ knife...

"How does one go about killing a _gholam_ with this, Naythan?"

"With very great difficulty! Like trying to kill _ana'conda_ with a hat-pin!"

"I do not know what a… what that is, but-"

"Giant snake that wraps itself around you, squeezing and biting!"

"Then I can imagine that it would not have been easy…"

"Was _supposed_ to be… Father said that if I punched into nerve-cluster at base of spine and twisted, then… but _was_ no nerve-cluster! Had to do it the old-fashioned way that night… cutting and slashing and tearing apart until _Gholam_ could no longer reassemble itself, too weak, but still doing its best to kill me, very bad, fighting in the dark with Latra Sedai sitting up in bed calling for the other guards who were all dead, not able to Channel, waste of time with _Gholamin_… just me and the _Gholam_ in the shadows, trying to see who would die first! Grappling and stabbing and _clawing_…"

Naythan's eyes were slightly wild, his nostrils flared.

"It is alright, Naythan. I can see that you do not like to speak of it. You need not do so again… unless you feel the need to. You will find me a good listener, yes?"

The wild look had faded from his eyes and he eyed her consideringly a moment. "Hellyth Sedai – do you play _tcheran?_"

"I do not know what that is… is it like stones?"

"I do not know what that is either, but there is a _tcheran_ board downstairs, I could teach you."

"I should like that."

Ellyth frowned. What had the last word of his slightly manic recollection been… _clawing?_ Yes. There was something that needed to be discussed… uncovered… _revealed_. He was feline in many other ways (some of them rather amusing, not to mention touching) but also in a strongly atavistic way, a wildcat... a predator… she recalled the leopard that had broken the neck of their wandering pack-mule with such swift efficiency, back in Saldaea, great power packed into so small a frame, killing a much larger animal and dragging it resolutely away… and he never seemed to take off his gloves… he had torn through a Myrddraal's rib cage and pulled out its heart. The Myrddraal that had presumably killed Atual, so she could only approve, much as she would have liked to kill it herself, but a savage act, even so…

It was well that Naythan served the Light. If he meant her harm, he could have killed her easily a hundred times over, as easily as a cat killing a… a _sorda!_ Especially since her weaves would have availed her little against him, even had she possibly been able to embrace the Source and channel in time, against such speed, such ferocity… the leopard had moved fast, but she knew that he could move much faster than that, snatching a Draghkar from the air and twisting its head full-circle… as well as whatever else he had been doing, out there in the shadows of the night.

Ellyth knew that she had nothing to fear from 'Naythan Shieldman,' service to Aes Sedai was sunk deep within him, as deep as after her Testing for the Shawl, the Binding Rod had sunk the Three Oaths into her. But it was more than that... just as the Oaths did not transform a woman into a good Aes Sedai, she had to work at that herself. Whatever else he might be, she felt certain that Naythan had always tried to be a good man… and in this, he had succeeded. Few men did.

Ellyth gazed at Naythan for a long moment, wondering how best to phrase it, feeling suddenly uncertain, and even a little afraid. Naythan smiled, his rather pointy teeth flashing a little. And then, his expression and demeanour changed to one she had never seen before – and yet she _had_. His unassuming humility sloughing away to reveal unadulterated arrogance... when he spoke, it sounded very like the cultured tones of a rather precise and fussy old man!

"_I see a question in your eyes..._"

Naythan gazed at her with the amused scorn of someone long-accustomed to being the smartest person in the room, lip slightly curled, nose wrinkling faintly as though detecting a bad odour… she had _seen_ that look before! That expression of sardonic tolerance of an inferior! Naythan was pretending to be the _ghost!_ The _message_, rather… he was imitating his father!

Naythan's face changed back to his own and he grinned. "Sorry! Father was _always_ saying that to people... it was his _line._"

Ellyth blinked, and her feathery brows drew down a little. _Line?_ What in the Wheel was he talking about _this_ time? He became serious again, even solemn.

"Ask, Aes Sedai. Ask."

"You mentioned... _clawing_ the _gholam?_"

Naythan sighed. "Wish me to take gloves off, Hellyth Sedai?"

"Only if you want to, Naythan…"

So, Naythan shrugged, took off his gloves, and showed Ellyth his weapons.

* * *

><p><em>"Damn," N'aethan muttered, fumbling his Spire so that it fell over on the board. He was breaking-in a new pair of gloves and they were still stiff and unsupple. He tipped the heavy black piece upright, and pushed it to Kiam's Fortress rank. There! She would not have been expecting that… so direct an attack... when he looked up, Kiam was not smiling coolly at him, with a slight sneer, as she usually did when he made his moves, to indicate that she had seen it coming from several leagues away… instead, she was looking at his gloves, a small frown creasing her pale, delicate features. <em>

_"Why do you not just take the gloves off, Lightborn?" Kiam enquired._

_N'aethan did not say anything, scowling a little. No-doubt this was the precursor to some insult… but no, Kiam seemed genuine in her suggestion, which was not one he had ever heard before from someone who knew what he kept under his gloves. People usually seemed happy that he kept his hands covered up, though he often caught glances being directed at his fingers by those who thought he wasn't looking, wouldn't notice. He was _always_ looking. He _always_ noticed. _

_Kiam _definitely_ knew – had she not seen what he did to the Darkhounds, that day? And what he had done to other creatures of the Shadow, on other days? And, more to the point, _how_ he did it? _

_Kiam eyed him, cool and dispassionate. "You would find it easier to move the pieces if you did," she stated. "I do not mind."_

_N'aethan stared at her with his cobalt eyes for a long moment, then removed his gloves and tucked them into his belt. He kept his hands beneath the tcheran table though, resting on his thighs. Kiam shrugged, then glanced at the board. One of her Bastions lifted into the air and drifted a single square, before settling down again. _

_N'aethan blinked – why had she done that? the move made no sense – and then realised that it was now his turn. Kiam was watching him, expectantly. So, N'aethan moved his Tower. With his claws. His hand did not look that different than most, the fingers a little shorter and thicker than might be usual, perhaps, but he had seen such powerful digits on Warmen, long accustomed to swinging their swords and hefting hot shocklances. It was the fingernails – well, the _claws_ – that made his hands so distinctive… not to mention, mildly horrific. Well… to be honest... horrific. _

_The claws were a pure, ebony black in colour, lying curved against his fingertips. They were sharper than razors, as sharp as a Power-forged weapon (which they were, in a way) and very difficult to break, though even when they did, they always grew back over the course of a few weeks. _

_Father had done it so that he would never be without a weapon. He had attempted to explain it to him once, but after '…realigning the silicate matrices of the keratin…' N'aethan had stopped listening. He had never listened to Father when he began to ramble about the kind of Biology that even other Biologists were usually too stupid to understand! He just nodded his head occasionally and made 'mm' sounds every now and then. If an Aes Sedai with a third name who had studied Mutable Biology for most of their long life could not understand it, how in the Pit did Father think he was supposed to?_

_So, while Kiam watched, without censure or disapprobation or fear, just watched, N'aethan extended the first two fingers of his hand… and then extended the claws from them. The two dark, shining weapons slid smoothly from their sheaths and settled delicately to either side of his Tower. He lifted the piece and placed it gently on her Spire's rank. Just one more move and her High Councillor would be his. He would have won! He had never won a game from Kiam before... She continued to watch his hand levelly, as he retracted the claws back into the sheaths that thickened the first joint of his fingers. _

_Well, there it was, let Kiam say what she liked – he might be a freak, but at least he had five terrible weapons on each hand (and five more on each foot) with which to fight the Shadow. He was proud of his claws… but also, a little ashamed…or a lot ashamed, depending on the kind of mood he was in. He had tried to pull them out once, when he was younger, drinking most of a bottle of whiskey before reaching for the pliers, but had given up after the first. It had been too painful, even for him. It had eventually grown back after a year of having just nine on his hands – had that been worth the pain? not really – and one of his thumb claws was a little shorter than the other as a result. _

_Kiam just nodded. "There," she said, "is that not easier for you, Lightborn?"_

_"I suppose…" N'aethan muttered, grudgingly._

_Kiam smiled, a glittering, feral smile, then leant forward gracefully in her sung-wood chair, reaching out her own, much more attractive fingers, one decorated with the golden Eternal Serpent, and moved her Spire across the entirety of the board, setting the heavy cuendillar piece firmly down on his High-Councillor's rank. N'aethan scowled. Kiam always spent the game moving her pieces about with her mind, except for that final, game-winning move, when she used her hand instead! _

"_Oh, and Rie-Mordero, by the way. Kiam Lopiang triumphs once more... all Hail the Queen!"_

_"Damnation! It is not fair, Kiam Sedai! You distracted me from my game with your talk of gloves!"_

_"Then set the pieces again and take your revenge, Lightborn."_

_"I will!" _

_N'aethan extended all of his claws and began to swiftly, deftly re-set the board, doing it in about ten chimes, much faster than he had ever been able to when gloved. He felt a particular kind of gaze on him and glanced up. Kiam was looking at him speculatively with those dark, tilted eyes, a small, slightly curious smile curving her rosebud lips. He saw a question in her eyes, just like Father always did. He retracted his claws and crossed his arms, raising pale eyebrows as he looked down at her. "What?"_

_"Oh, nothing of importance…"_

_"Ask!"_

_"Well, alright Lightborn. Since you insist..." Kiam smiled that strange, glittering smile of hers. "Is it true, what they say? That you have a tail?"_

_"Do I _look_ like I have a tail, Aes Sedai?"_

_"I do not know, it could be a small one, tucked away down the back of your trousers... well, Lightborn? Do you have a tail or not?"_

"_With all due respect, honoured Servant of the Hall – shut-up!"_

_Kiam's laughter was always reminiscent of the distant chimes of silver bells…_

_"I expect if you did, it would be a lovely, smooth-furred tail, that you could curl around bits of furniture as you walked about your dome!" Kiam held her snake-ringed hand over her mouth, trying to restrain the peals of delicate laughter._

_N'aethan attempted to summon a dark scowl, but couldn't help grinning. He had to admit, it was an amusing image… not that he lived in a dome, or possessed furniture, but still. So, he laughed too, the strange mewling noise he made when he was amused. A noise the Warmen were all-too used to hearing. They thought the Gholam-Killer's sense of humour extremely strange, and he supposed it was, but at least, unlike them, he _had _one! It felt good to be laughing with Kiam. Even if the object of the laughter, as damned usual, was himself!_

_"I promise I would not pull on it if you did, Lightborn!" Kiam leant forward over the tcheran board, giggling rather girlishly, shaking her head back and forth, delicately dabbing tears from the corners of her eyes._

_"Kiam Lopiang Aes Sedai, this is an inappropriate way to address Sin'aethan Shadar Cor. But if you command me, Servant of All, then your Shieldman will obey – I shall stand, lower my cadin'gai, turn around and lean forward – proving, once and for all, that I do _not_ have a tail!"_

_"Goodness, Lightborn... what an image! I shall have to think on it…"_

_"Then I shall think about my first move whilst you do, and my game-plan also, which it would be nice were I allowed to concentrate upon this time, and in that fashion we shall _both_ maintain a reflective silence, Kiam Sedai."_

_"Yes, without all of this dreadful caterwauling!" Oh dear, Kiam was off again. It was as though she bottled-up all of her laughter for months on end, reserving it for their occasional tcheran games. _

_(nice of her to make that point about the gloves though, I suppose I am silly about the claws, it's not as though everyone doesn't know I've got them… well, I suppose those Aiel-children didn't, which was why I had to make up the story…)_

_N'aethan played many more tcheran games with Kiam Sedai after that, losing them all, and did not trouble to wear his gloves in her presence again._

* * *

><p>Ellyth looked at the claws, a little repelled, but fascinated also. "But... you massaged my neck..." was all she could think of to say.<p>

Naythan smiled, tensed muscles in his knuckles, and the black claws withdrew further back in their sheaths until only the ends poked out, leaving his broad, powerful fingertips bare.

"And do they pop out as well? Oh. They do." The claws slid from their sheaths, ten sharp and shining weapons... Ellyth blinked. Naythan was watching her rather cautiously... was he wondering if she was going to scream? Or faint? She would do neither. It had been fairly obvious to her for some time that he had claws on his hands – it was the only supposition that made any sense! Though it was one thing to suspect, another to be provided with such graphic, physical confirmation...

"They look rather sharp, Naythan..."

"Oh, that they are... have to be careful when I scratch my nose..."

"When you... that is a jest, yes?"

"_Yes!_ Father wanted me to always have weapons to hand..." Naythan grinned "...literally! Weapons that could not be taken away... weapons with which to fight the Shadow... to claw it." He shrugged. "Elder Brother had his Howling-Axe and Middle Brother had his Screaming-Spear... well, Younger Brother (that is _me_, Hellyth Sedai) has his... his Black Claws of King Tashanda!" He made the mewling, laughing sound in the back of his throat whilst Ellyth blinked, confusedly. "Sorry, could not resist..."

Naythan was holding his hands before him rather self-consciously, Ellyth noted, the black claws sliding slowly back into the sheaths. He sighed, becoming solemn again, eyeing her seriously. "Think you I am a monster?" he enquired, softly.

Ellyth shook her head, firmly. "We do not have the luxury of choosing what... _who_, we are... I am Aes Sedai, yet I hail from a nation – a homeland from which I was exiled, to which I may never return – that reviles the White Tower and is reviled by it in turn. I did not ask for my fate anymore than you did yours. The Wheel weaves as it wills and we are just Threads in the Pattern. We are who we are... and we are not who we are _not_. If I am no witch, then _you_ are no monster. I think that you are a man, Naythan. I thought you a man before you took off your gloves and showed me your hands, and I yet think so afterwards, yes?"

Ellyth reached out slowly, carefully, and took his hands in hers.

* * *

><p>N'aethan could not believe it – Ellythia Sedai, she had taken his hands in her own! The only people who had ever done that were old Ledrin and Father... and Mother, of course. <em>Latra Sedai<em>, he meant! She was holding his _bare_ hands, holding them both, very gently, in her own small, pale hands, the hands of a child, almost... a child Aes Sedai in strength of Power, true, but in strength of character... very much an Aes Sedai, even so. She turned his hands over in hers, for a moment, then looked up at him with those big, dark eyes... she had gone up onto her toes a little, was leaning towards him... she was a prude about nudity, but shameless elsewhere, it seemed! Holding his hands! He was blushing with embarrassment. Whatever next? Was she going to kiss him on the cheek, or even upon the- oh, she was doing it. She was kissing him rather hesitantly on the mouth! _Shameless!_ But very pleasant, for all that...

N'aethan shrugged, and kissed the Aes Sedai back. After a while, she relinquished his hands and moved hers up to his shoulders, so he put his arms around her, and she did not object, pressing a little closer to him. Well, this was nice... at which point, red-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ put in an extremely unwelcome appearance.

"Nightwatcher! Aes Sedai! Excuse-me, should I come back later?"

Ellythia Sedai pulled away from him swiftly and stood smoothing her skirts, blushing furiously, whilst Cohradin gaped at them both in a very annoying way. She glanced at N'aethan momentarily with those dark, liquid eyes, lips still slightly parted, face flushed, looking uncertain of herself… and extremely pretty. N'aethan imagined he felt something shift inside his chest in an odd way… but then, those eyes focused on his black-clawed hands and narrowed, her feathery brows drawing down in alarm.

"Your gloves!" Ellythia Sedai hissed.

N'aethan blinked. "It is alright Mistress, the _Da'shain_, I mean the Shaido, they already know about the claws," he explained, but pulled the gloves from his belt and put them back on anyway. It had sounded a bit like a command. Honour to Obey, Aes Sedai. Honour to kiss you on the lips, Aes Sedai!

Ellythia Sedai's dark eyes widened, and then narrowed again. She scowled darkly at him. She had been _kissing_ him a couple of chimes ago! Now she was scowling again! What had he done wrong this time? _Females!_

"Am I to understand that you have kept something from me that you have been only too happy to share with the Aiel?" she demanded, crossly.

N'aethan shook his head. "It is not like that, Mistress… they already knew about the eyes and the claws..."

"Though not the ears, _Vron'cor_, we did not know of _them!_"

"Be silent, Cohradin!" N'aethan gave him a glare for good measure. When the irritating fellow had put in his untimely arrival, he had had to fight a strong urge to throw him over his shoulder, run up the ramp, race up the stairs... and hurl Cohradin quite forcefully into the World Sea... no, they called it the Aryth Ocean, now...

"_How_ did they know?" Ellythia Sedai had her hands on her slim hips. That was usually not a good sign... "I suppose that the Aiel are aware that you come from the Age of Legends, also? Well, _clearly_ they are... and why do they keep calling you _Nightwatcher_ all of the time? You have been most indiscreet, Naythan Gaidin!"

"Have not, Mistress!" N'aethan protested, "I did not tell the Shaido, they knew about it from _stories_, it seems that I am some sort of an imaginary friend of theirs… or a mythical childhood hero... something like that... I am not quite sure..."

"Why, he is the Nightwatcher, Aes Sedai!" Cohradin enthused, "ever has _Vron'cor_ watched over the sleep of good Aiel children!"

Ellythia Sedai raised a feathery eyebrow sceptically.

"What do you _want_, Cohradin?" N'aethan demanded heatedly, "are the Shadow-wrought attacking? They had _better_ be!"

Cohradin shook his head solemnly, his _sei'cal _glowing a little in the low light.

"No, _Vron'cor_, they yet build their rafts and blow upon their foolish horns."

"Then-"

"There is a 'ship-boat,' Nightwatcher!"

"A _what?_"

Ellythia Sedai became excited by this; "there _is?_ Well... is it a ship or a boat?"

Cohradin shrugged. "I do not know aught of these things, Aes Sedai, this is why I use _both_ of the words that Gerom knew! The... 'ship' I suppose it is, has approached close to the west side of this sea-mountain and has dropped a heavy weight upon a chain into the ocean... also, the 'sailormen' as Gerom names them, are lowering upon ropes another, smaller 'boat' down into the seawater... oh, and there are various people on board of the ship, shouting and waving their arms... we are not sure, but one... no, perhaps two, may be Aes Sedai... they do not _seem_ as Aes Sedai, they are both of them jumping up and down, but they have the snake ring upon their fingers, as do you, Ellythia Desiama."

"Two of my Sisters?" Ellythia Sedai seemed hopeful. "What do they want?"

"You, Aes Sedai!"

"What?"

"They are shouting _your_ name!"


	4. Chapter 10: Before the Tomb

_**Gleeman Bob writes:** this chapter was originally titled On the Road to Tar Valon and was all about Guaire Amalasan in a cage on his way to the White Tower to be gentled and executed, being interviewed by Master J Manyard who wants to write a book about him (he appears in a Wheel of Time preface as one of the translators of the Prophecies of the Dragon...) there would have been loads of flashbacks too, naturally! but apart from explaining how that Horn (the wrong Horn!) ended up in the ruins of Guaire's old Summer Palace, it would not have been that relevant to what is going on in He Sleeps Under the Hill, kind of like the Trolloc Wars chapter, so that is a story for another time. this is more an early episode in Guaire's life, sandwiched between two Darkfriendy bits. and it is a nice short chapter too, compared with the last one!_

_I do not, of course, own the Wheel of Time, anymore than I invented the character of Guaire Amalasan, the Second Dragon! this is just my take on what he might have been like... and in addition to being indebted to Master Gleeman Jordan for the grand setting he created, I must also mention Master Spaceman Asimov, whose 3 Laws of Robotics I have used... well, a bit... _

_thanks for reading and..._

_Walk in the Light!_

_(oh, and bloodophobic types beware; the middle segment of this chapter has got lots of blood in it... the word 'blood' is used a great deal... there is blood everywhere... sorry, but that is Gholams for you, they love blood... can't get enough of it... if you ask a Gholam what it wants for dinner, then the answer will always be- well, you get the idea... anyway, you have been warned about all of the blood.) _

* * *

><p><em>...one of the few facts pertaining to the False Dragon left extant from the subsequent purges of all material relating to his brief ascendancy, concerns assassination. A great many attempts were made upon the life of the Usurper. All failed, even those abortive liquidations perpetrated by women reputed to be Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah. The recording of conjecture in place of evidence is to be deplored, but it is said that he retained the services of a redoubtable bodyguard, who watched over his sleep...<em>

_**The Early Reign of the High King**_** – Jeorad Manyard, Governor; Province of Andor [FY993]**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10 * Before the Tomb <strong>

_A slim young woman stood on the deck of a small sailing craft, bobbing at anchor upon rolling, blue-grey waves, punctuated in places with jagged rock-spurs. Her eyes were so dark as to be almost black, set in a pale and rather blank face. Locks of wet hair, coloured a nondescript brown, snaked about her bare shoulders. The woman swayed fluidly from side to side with the motion of the seas. She was naked, damp with sea-water, and the slender arms that hung limply at her sides were covered in blood to the elbows. A flat-topped sea-mount jutting up from the ocean held her dark gaze. There was a sense of ineffable patience to her attention, though flavoured perhaps with a hint of anticipation. After a time, a black speck appeared at the top of the mount. A man. Gravely, the young woman raised a long-fingered, gore-soaked hand, moving it slowly from side to side. The man waved back, then began to descend the eroded steps carved into the rock face, toward where a rowing-boat was drawn up on an abbreviated stretch of shingle. The woman watched him for a moment, then turned away, thin lips spreading back from small, white teeth, a sudden fire in her empty eyes. After her recent exertions, she was hungry…_

* * *

><p><strong>Part I: Once Upon a Time...<strong>

"_Fly, you vile things, fly! Rake them, rend them, rip out their eyes! Bring me the girl's head! Go!_"

Arachnae Kirikil raged and shook her withered old fists at the flock of flapping Draghkar that surged past her basket to either side. Her quavering old voice croaked raven-like as she uttered her imprecations in the dark tongue of the Shadow, her gimlet gaze fixed on the chaos that was unfolding ahead. In their haste to obey, several almost collided with their fellows who bore her conveyance through the air on long chains.

"_Have a care, vileness!_" Arachnae snarled at the clumsy, bat-winged creatures, narrowing her small, dark eyes. One of the Draghkar burst into flames with a shriek. She scowled. She had not meant to do that... she really must get a grip!

* * *

><p>The walls were rumbling and shuddering, thin streams of dust jetting from the joints in their smooth, gleaming surfaces and before heading for the staircase, Ranim turned on the ramp for a last quick look at the chamber below. That marble statue of some long-dead Hero was still there, looking as if nothing would topple it, but everything else was shaking and trembling, as though caught in the grip of a powerful earth-quake. The big chunk of mutely glowing crystal in the domed ceiling came loose, falling to the stone floor and shattering loudly. The tremors were increasing in force, it would be well to depart this mysterious place... he ran for the stairs.<p>

Ranim emerged into the open air, stepping over the dismembered corpse of a still-twitching Myrddraal. He glanced back down the staircase incuriously. Seyv and Bulmar had been right behind him, had they not? Where- the rending crash of falling stone, a brief screech of agony cut abruptly short. A pall of dust rose from below, drifting about him. Ranim coughed, and waved his hand about to dispel the haze. No sign of movement down there... well, they should have run faster. He glanced at his remaining men, roughly-dressed mercenaries huddled nervously together, a bare half-dozen of them left now, since Gylyn had fallen from the rope to his death, Aulfric and Jesem drowned on the way over... again, the stone beneath his feet shook. Whatever this hidden place was, it seemed that the ocean wished to reclaim it, and soon.

Ranim eyed the dozen Myrddraal... they were gathering the weapons of an equal number of their fallen Brothers, tucking the dark swords through their belts. There was always a need for new _Thakan'dar_-forged blades, to arm the next generation of Halfmen to emerge from the breeding caves. Such valuable swords were not to be left to go to waste. Ranim regarded the pale, slug-white creatures with distaste... as well as a certain amount of envy. Sure enough, as one they turned and filed past him to the steps, moving down into the darkness with serpentine grace, stepping purposefully into the gloom that lay beneath, which promptly swallowed them. The last to leave, to fade to wherever it was that Lurks went when they rode the shadows, turned its head, giving Ranim a thin sneer that was vaguely gloating, he thought, before it too disappeared.

Ranim scowled. Hopefully the Myrddraal would be severely punished for their failure, when they stepped out of a shadow somewhere to the north of the Blight and made their report to a superior. He hoped so, in any event. The many, unquiet corpses of their brethren who had at least paid the appropriate price for _their _failure, lay scattered about the shaking top of this odd, hollow sea-mount. Mostly killed with blades by the looks of it, though three lying close together were somewhat charred... he had seen lightning strike the mount earlier. The Aes Sedai's doing, doubtless. One of the Fades had had its heart torn out of its chest... the Dragonspawn's work.

With this in mind, Ranim turned to see if the ship was still there. One of his men – the mercenary, Dirf, forget himself so much as to grab at Ranim's arm.

"We can't get back down – we're trapped!" Dirf shouted angrily, over the noise of grinding stone and roiling water, "what are we going to _do?_ _Well?_ What are we going to _bloody_ do n-" The rest of the word became a muted gurgle, the burgeoning note of hysteria abruptly curtailed... Ranim jerked his dark, _Thakan'dar_ blade from Dirf's throat and stepped neatly aside so that the big man would not spray blood on him as he fell. He eyed the others coldly.

"_What are we going to do now?_" Ranim repeated, mimicking the late Dirf's somewhat whiny tones, for the benefit of the remaining Darkfriends. They watched, warily. He shrugged, his voice resuming its more-usual icy flatness. "Clearly, we are going to die." Ranim turned his back on them and went to look out to sea. The terror in their eyes made him feel sick. Death held no fear for him.

The small, black-hulled ship in which the prey of the Dread Mistress appeared to be escaping was getting under way – they had cast the rowing-boat loose and were all aboard now. Ranim watched the distant figures scurrying about the deck, coldly. Amidships, he could see that tall Aielman with the red glass eye. The fellow noticed him and grinned, the scar on his face twisting, then drew his knife and mimed drawing it slowly across his throat. Ranim frowned. And standing beside the Aielman, gloved hands cupped at its mouth... the creature. Whatever it was. He had seen it, tried to kill it, _spoken_ with it even... and was yet uncertain as to what exactly it might be. It had a heavily bandaged leg... so the device his Mistress had left on the beach must have injured it, at least. Ranim was glad to see that it had not killed it, though... he wanted very badly to take care of that himself. The Dragonspawn had seen him also, appeared to be shouting something. No... not shouting. Singing.

Straining his ears, Ranim could make out some distant words before they were lost to the howling of the wind, the grinding and shattering of rock;

"_...but I will hold her close to me_

_in heart and dearest memory..."_

Ranim winced slightly, then scowled. Personally, he had never much cared for that particular song, even when he was still amongst the wagons and had professed to enjoy music... he had always thought it somewhat maudlin and affected. His dislike for the refrain was the very reason why he had selected it, after all. But of course, there was no accounting for taste...

_After the creature with the glowing eyes had finished throwing Myrddraal heads from the night and taunting the Shadowspawn, it went away. In his hiding place, Ranim waited awhile, then cautiously lifted his head over the edge of the Trolloc cauldron, staring into the night with a cold, blue-eyed gaze. Some people – most, in fact – might have felt concern at finding themselves inside a filthy cook-pot of rusty iron, set amidst an entire double-Fist of hungry Trollocs, but Ranim was not one of them. Nothing frightened him. Nothing at all. _

_Ranim slipped out of the cauldron with a graceful economy of movement and pushed his way contemptuously through the cowering Trollocs huddled close to the fire, drawing the poisoned blade from its long sheath as he did so. None of the twisted creatures attempted to impede his progress, though one, a wolf-muzzled monstrosity, growled at him... but Ranim just looked at it until it lowered its bloodshot eyes. It vaguely disappointed him that he would not need to set an example... just one scratch would provide an extremely loud and painful death, an object lesson for the others. The dark, oily substance that coated the slim blade in his hand should be enough to kill just about anything, in his experience... it always had before. _

_One of the severed Myrddraal heads lay in his path, and smiling coldly, Ranim gave it a good hard kick, sending it sailing into the darkness, just as he had when he was a boy and played barrel-ball with the other boys when their chores were done, before the meal and the singing... Ranim's smile became a scowl. He did not like to think of the wagons, but such memories would pop into his head from time to time. _

_Still scowling, Ranim prowled into the night, his blade held low and at the ready. This was no time to let his mind wander... he had a strange and undoubtedly dangerous creature to find and kill. He had glimpsed it out there, eyes shining in the darkness, heard its voice hissing in the Shadow Tongue, which he spoke not particularly well... something about things being slow... the word for 'anger' perhaps... and _Shadow-filth_, he knew _that_ term, the Dread Mistress used it often when addressing her Draghkar... well, she would be here on the morrow. It would be fine indeed, to present her with the creature's head... at which point, the creature in question stepped soundlessly out from behind a tree, tapping him on the shoulder. _

"_You are looking for me, perchance?" it enquired. _

_Ranim stabbed, faster than he ever had before, even when he slew the Grey Woman that had been sent to kill his Mistress... but somehow, the creature slipped aside at the last moment, letting the lunging point go past its chest – _nothing_ moved that fast. But it did. A gloved hand closed over Ranim's wrist and wrenched, the poisoned blade falling from a nerveless hand, a powerful arm blocked his kick and the creature grinned, baring its pointy teeth, and seized him by the throat with disquieting speed and force._

"_You are quite swift," it complimented Ranim, before slamming him into a tree-trunk whilst squeezing at the sides of his neck in an odd way... his vision dimming, he tried to strike at its eyes with the ring-blade he wore on the middle finger of the hand that still worked, but lost consciousness instead._

_When Ranim awoke, his head was throbbing dully and he was tied to a tree with his own belt, his arms bent back and secured at the wrists on the far side of the trunk to which his spine was pressed... and the creature was crouching just opposite him. Ranim lifted his head, watching it. It had taken off its fancloth double-cape and the coat and shirt it wore beneath... it had an odd, triangle-shaped blue mark scored into the skin over its heart. The creature was pressing a pale bandage to the wound in its side, hissing angrily to itself in the Old Tongue, by the sound of it. It glanced up. It looked much more human than Ranim would have thought, given the reports. It blinked its cobalt eyes, which glowed a little, though a full moon provided illumination ... no, the eyes were definitely _not_ human._

"_Ah, you are awake, Shadowsworn. Good." Its words were strangely-accented, delivered in a low, husky voice and its teeth looked too sharp when it spoke... The creature smoothed the bandage down, put its shirt back on and rose fluidly, approaching Ranim until their noses were almost touching. Bestial eyes burned into his. Ranim returned the gaze calmly. "Fortunate for you that I have already had most of my questions answered by a Beastman."_

_Ranim frowned. That morning, they had found what was left of one of the Trolloc scouts, nailed to a tree with its own arrows... well, it could not have told the creature much. Whereas he would tell it _nothing_._

"_Though have always had a curious nature, admittedly..." the creature added. "Enlighten me, Shadow-lover; why did you follow?"_

"_I did not follow you, I was lost. I am of the Tuatha'an, and lost my path in these woods." Ranim's voice was toneless and lacking inflection, but then, it usually was. _

_The creature nodded enthusiastically. "Ah, the Lost Ones! I have heard tell of these. Then you have certainly lost your way, Friend!" Ranim scowled. He disliked the name. The accursed Aielmen must have told the creature about that... The creature made a polite gesture with a gloved hand. "Please, continue with your story, loudly-dressed Travelling Person who is sworn to the Shadow..."_

"_Shadow?" Ranim shrugged as much as his awkwardly bound-back arms would allow. "When you appeared suddenly, I feared for my life. I panicked and-"_

"_Attacked? With a weapon?" The creature produced the poisoned blade, twirling it skilfully about its fingers, before sniffing at the dark oil smeared on it. It dabbed a long tongue against the substance, smacked its lips a little, and then frowned. "A poisoned weapon at that! For shame!" Disparagingly, it tossed the blade into the bushes. "But the Tuatha'an follow the Leaf Way! This is a very good story, Shadowsworn... entertaining... do keep telling it to me whilst I consider how best to dispose of your corpse..."_

"_I do not follow the Way of the Leaf anymore. I was cast out. Though I still seek the Song." Ranim did not particularly care if the creature believed him, though it ought to in this instance, if no other, since every one of these words was true! _

_The creature paced back a little and began to fiddle with a small dagger that it pulled from its belt. _His_ dagger, the one he usually kept in his boot. Ranim frowned. _

"_The song? Ah, yes..." the creature muttered, seemingly to itself, "...songs, sung in the Low, the Vulgar, mean I... your people are good at this, __i__ hear..." it raised its disturbing gaze, "you will perhaps sing to me a song, Shadowsworn? Though the song you sing at the moment is amusing indeed." It scowled a little, its oddly-shaped pupils narrowing. "Oh, and why were you hiding in a Trolloc cook-pot, by the by? Do you think that __I__ did not notice you were there? Are you an escaped meal, perhaps? I do not think so. You are a Friend of the Dark. A spy. Or an assassin. An assassin most probably, since you are not entirely unskilled with a blade, and a spy would be better at telling lies." _

_Ranim did not choose to respond to this. The creature spoke further, sounding bored, tired... "Have met many like you, over the years... far too many..." _

_The creature flicked its wrist and the dagger sank into the bark beside Ranim's head, the hilt quivering against his ear. He did not flinch. The creature approached again, smiled. Give or take the teeth, it was quite a pleasant smile... _

"_Now I will ask once more, and this time I would like the truth, please, or I may have to become annoyed with you. Tell me, Shadowsworn... why did you follow me into the woods?"_

"_To kill you, of course," Ranim stated, flatly._

_The creature grinned. "Well, you are honest about that, at least – finally! This is part of the reason why I do not like Friends to the Darkness – they are always telling lies, even to each other. Well, _especially_ each other... do you not ever get tired of the lies, Shadowsworn?" _

"_My Dread Mistress has never lied to me."_

"_Has she not? Who is your Mistress? Oh, is she 'v'kaish?' "_

_Ranim blinked. "That is what the Trollocs call her, in the Shadow-tongue... what does it mean?"_

"_You do not know? Strange. Well, I am the one asking the questions, but suppose can tell you that it means 'crone.' "_

"_They call her this? That is very rude of them. I will have to set an example." _

"_It is very difficult to set examples when you are dead, Shadowsworn."_

"_Then kill me and be done with it. I grow weary of listening to you."_

_The creature moved back a little, still holding his gaze – Ranim had managed to not blink once – and raised a gloved hand to its chin, stroking ruminatively. _

"_Hmm, to kill the Darkfriend or to not kill the Darkfriend... this is the question... had not thought about it yet. I will make up my mind in a moment, either way... you will be the first to know when have decided which, __I__ so assure you!"_

_Ranim smiled coldly. "You enjoy it, do you not?"_

"_Enjoy?"_

"_Killing. I enjoy it also. It is good to kill." _

"_I suppose... sometimes... very enjoyable to kill those Shadowmen, of a certainty, was lying there in a hole I dug, under the dead leaves, waiting for them – they looked so surprised! Wish Middle Brother had been there to see, would have made him laugh..." the creature blinked, its grin fading, then frowned, "yes... but it is well to enjoy other things, also, not just killing. Music, for example. Do you like music, Shadowsworn?"_

"_I once did. But no more. I do seek the Song, though, that was no lie. The Divine Song of the Great Lord of the Dark..." a strange look of rapture passed briefly over Ranim's dead features "...I heard it once, when I swore my Oaths. I hear a bar, a phrase of it, every time I take a life... I would hear it again, the whole Song, not just one small part. __t__hen, I will be content."_

_The creature shrugged its broad shoulders, then eyed Ranim askance. "Father heard that song too, but he did not like it so much as you... you remind me of him, slightly, Shadowsworn – you are both clearly a little bit crazy!" The creature scowled. "But enough fraternising with the enemy! Have decided to let you live, though will probably regret it later... __I__ want you to take a message to your crone, this old Darkfriend hag, the Dreadlord or whatever she is. Tell 'v'kaish' to go back to the Blight! If Sin'aethan Shadar Cor sees her, he will eat her heart! Tell her this!" _

"_I will," Ranim lied. His brow furrowed. "So you will let me go free?" He had not expected that to be the outcome of this interrogation... _

"_I suppose so..." the creature muttered, somewhat grumpily, then grinned its alarming grin, "but only on one condition, Tinker of the Dark!"_

_Ranim scowled. "What condition is that?" He spoke impatiently, fully expecting to die, still... he had not the inclination for these cat and mouse games... the creature managed to surprise him with the nature of its condition, however; _

"_I know little of the music of these times. Teach to me a song, Shadowsworn... one of the songs the Lost Ones, that these Travelling People sing... a nice one!"_

_Ranim blinked. It seemed a fair enough condition, he supposed, if unexpected. This creature was... strange. Not what he had expected at all. And he would put his knife in its heart the next time they met, slide the blade right through that odd, shining tattoo on its chest, and twist... the Dread Mistress would help him to find a way..._

"_Very well," Ranim agreed, clearing his throat a little prior to singing, "this is a song called; 'The Wind that Shakes the Willow...' "_

At the rail of the ship, the Dragonspawn had ceased its singing and, along with the one-eyed Aielman, was engaged in waving a sarcastic goodbye. They were both grinning like fools. Ranim's scowl darkened. Doubtless, they thought that they would not be seeing him again. Though were probably entirely correct in this...

Before turning his back on them and walking away, Ranim looked gloomily down, over the shaking parapet. Surrounding the base of the sea-mount, an enormous whirlpool was tearing a circular path of destruction. There were flickers of bright, white light within the churning, frothing water... clearly, whatever was going on down there was no natural phenomena. Down there. While they were trapped up here. Well, there it was. He was going to die. He wondered what it would be like? Then, Ranim abruptly realised that he could sense his Mistress through the bond, very close, right on top of him in fact... and a large shadow moved across the sun. A blur of motion in the corner of his eye, and Ranim had to move quite swiftly to avoid being crushed by a large basket, flinging himself to one side. One of the wagon-guards did not move fast enough and was left howling with a broken leg.

* * *

><p>Arachnae was gripping the arms of her chair quite hard. "<em>What kind of a landing do you call that?<em>" she demanded, "_fools!_" Her Draghkar alighted around the basket, their long chains trailing and coiling on the smooth, shaking rock, and abased themselves in contrition. Ranim rolled to his feet and raised his reddish eyebrows.

"Dread Mistress," he acknowledged, "you should not be here, it is extremely dangerous..." The wounded guard at his feet continued to scream thinly... Ranim frowned slightly, crouched, seized the fellow's dirty top-knot and yanked his head back, cutting his throat with a neat slice of the _Thakan'dar_-forged knife she had gifted to him. Ignoring the shaking rock about him, he slowly wiped clean the blade on the weakly thrashing wagon-guard's dirty coat, whilst continuing to stare at his Mistress with concern, and perhaps a hint of accusation. He sheathed his blade and stood.

"I can perfectly well see how _dangerous_ it is!" Arachnae shouted, over the increasing roar of the destructive forces that were tearing the base of the sea-mount apart, "my old eyes aren't what they used to be but I'm not blind and I haven't gone dotty just yet, you young impertinence!"

"But-"

"Oh, shut-up and get in the bloody basket!" Arachnae snapped, before glancing at the remaining Friends of the Dark, stood clustered together. "There isn't room for you, I am afraid," she told them, loudly and with little in the way of regret. The mercenaries and wagon-guards stared at their Dreadful Mistress with a mixture of resignation and disapprobation, though none dared object vocally to his fate. Arachnae reconsidered. Well, she supposed she could grant them something in the way of mercy, for all that they had largely proved worthless... a sort of mercy, at least. She glanced at her crouching Draghkar. "_Vileness..._" they looked up, expectantly. "_You may feed_." They rose, red lips spreading back from their fangs in anticipation. These rough men who had sworn their oaths to the Great Lord, but been deemed surplus to requirements even so, barely had time to scream. The hypnotic crooning began immediately, rendering the victims insensate to the subsequent feeding.

Ranim stuck his fingers firmly in his ears as he clambered awkwardly into the large, wickerwork basket, glancing back to watch whilst the Draghkar ate the souls of his remaining men. Such desiccated Threads would make for but a paltry feast, he suspected... but then, he turned his attention from the spiritual to more physical concerns. There wasn't really anywhere to sit... he hesitated. Arachnae made his mind up for him, gripping the youth by his slim waist and pulling him down onto her lap. Ranim shifted gingerly on his bony perch.

"Sit still, boy," Arachnae grumbled, "this contraption isn't the steadiest of rides, it is _no_ ox-cart, believe me... if you keep squirming about, you're like to go over the side." She glared at her feeding Draghkar. "_Enough gorging, filth! Fly!_"

The Draghkar leapt into the air, wings spreading, the chains taughtening and radiating outwards as they struggled for height. Ranim gripped Arachnae rather tightly as the basket rose unsteadily, swinging alarmingly.

"Are you perhaps attempting to strangle your old mistress, Ranim-dear?"

"My apologies, Dread Lady," Ranim muttered absently, relaxing his grip somewhat, "I have never flown in your basket before... oh, and thank-you for coming to save me, also."

"Well, good help is hard to find, my honey-bun. And besides, I want to know what you _saw_ in there... I can hardly find that out when you're down at the bottom of the Aryth Ocean, now can I?"

"Indeed not, Mistress. I have your device here, the seeing-_ter'angreal_..." Ranim patted the breast-pocket of his coat, "I waved it about, as you instructed."

"Well, I shall most certainly wish to have a look at that later, my poppet." Arachnae glanced back over her shoulder, at where the sea-mount was slowly sinking into the ocean, ringed by a whirling maelstrom of crashing waves and unearthly light. "Goodness, such horrendous destruction! And I cannot see any _weaves_ so it must be _saidin_ at work." The blank-faced figures of the men stood still as statues atop the mount as it sank inexorably into the swirling seas. Beyond, she could see the single-masted ship, sails set, getting under way, turning south... her flock of more than two score Draghkar pursuing and slowly gaining... she frowned.

Arachnae turned back to Ranim, her tone casual; "tell me, parsnip... did you see another of those boxes? If anything were to survive the destruction, it would be one of _them_. I might recover it from the depths, after all..."

Ranim seemed a little preoccupied... his gaze was on the long fall to the rock-strewn waves that lay far beneath. So _heights_ made him nervous, did they? It was well to know that there was _something_ that discomfited the boy... he turned toward her, cold blue eyes calm again after the flash of disquiet that had appeared in them.

"Yes, there was a casket by the hidden stairs, I am certain it was the same manner of device, fashioned of heartstone, though smaller than the other we found..."

"_And?_" Arachnae's voice had become eager. Ranim hesitated, and her heart sank. She knew he did not like having to disappoint her.

"It was open, Dread Mistress, with a red crystal fused into the side... empty..."

Arachnae's wrinkled lips thinned. "You are sure?"

"Yes, opened and not recently, there was a deal of dust in the bottom, unlike the other one..." Ranim flinched a little as Arachnae pounded a gnarled old fist against the wickerwork. She winced, and rubbed at her arm, which was swathed in a large bandage.

"_Shai'tan_ take it!" Arachnae hissed, under her breath, "_empty!_"

Ranim blinked. Clearly, the Dread Mistress must be very angry, to use _that_ word... it was... blasphemy!

Arachnae made a tutting sound, and slapped herself lightly on the wrist. "The Great Lord of the Dark take it, I mean..." She scowled, but then her mood changed in its usual mercurial fashion, and she brightened somewhat. Ranim watched cautiously, doing his best to sit still.

"Well, that is that, then... a shame, it would have made a useful tool..." Arachnae sighed. "Someone else must have let it out of its box," she muttered, musingly, "and I think I know _who_... not that it does me much good now, of course..."

"It, Dread Mistress?" Ranim muttered absently, "there was something in this _cuendillar_ box also, as with the Dragonspawn?" The basket swung a little in a hard gust of wind, and Ranim tightened his grip on the sides.

Arachnae doubted that he was particularly interested in the contents of the Stasis Box, was more likely enquiring to take his mind off this unpleasant aerial experience. She shrugged. "I think me the _Gholam_ was in there, though it is not anymore, curse-it... and I did _so_ want a _Gholam_ of my very own... it would have been _such fun _to let it loose in the White Tower... like a fox in the henhouse..." she sighed gustily, before blinking and continuing in more pragmatic tones; "...well, 'there is no use in crying over cheese that has gone mouldy.' " Arachnae scowled furiously. "Yes, _he_ must have woken it, burn him! _That_ is why he stole the Key from the courier! The wicked young scamp!"

Ranim shifted uncomfortably. "He? Key?"

"Count to three! Hush, boy, your old mistress is trying to _think_... and _sit still!_"

But it was a long flight back up to the cliffs for the labouring Draghkar, so after a moment, Arachnae Kirikil relented. There was no harm in the lad knowing, she liked to keep her young assassin abreast of events in any case, since when he acted on his own initiative, he usually produced good results. And besides, since Ranim was, after all, occupying her lap, Arachnae deemed it only appropriate to tell him a story... "Are you sitting comfortably, dear?"

Ranim pulled his gaze from the white breakers crashing against dark rocks far below. He blinked. Arachnae regarded him expectantly. "Dread Mistress..?" She nodded, slowly and emphatically, indicating that he might lie to her on this occasion, if no other. It _was_ the traditional response, after all. "Uh... yes..?"

"Then I shall begin. Once upon a time, very long ago, back before even _I_ was born, there lived an extremely _naughty _young man whose name, as it just so happens, was Guaire..."

* * *

><p><strong>Part II: Guaire and the Gholam<strong>

_The young man with the deep-set, mesmeric eyes lowered his hand and turned away from the ocean, the small ship anchored upon it, the monster on the corpse-strewn deck waving to him as it had been told to. He paced back over the level plateau of the sea-mount. It was called 'the Bear-stone' on the few maps that even mentioned its existence. A very smooth surface, beneath his soles. Too smooth. Balefire, most probably. A last, curious glance at the great stone feet atop the pedestal, then he took the Key from his belt-pouch, seizing saidin and channelling Fire and Earth. The hidden staircase rumbled shut. Clambering awkwardly over the parapet, he began to descend the ancient, crumbling steps. Unhurriedly. The ship was not going anywhere, not with his monster on board (and it _was_ his monster, now) and it was a nice enough day, for all that World's End was situated quite far to the north... so he felt no great urge to rush. Besides, he needed to harbour what little remained of his depleted strength before rowing out to the ship. He would have to do this himself because his monster did not know how to row a boat. Nor how to set sail either, he suspected, such primitive skills were doubtless unknown in its times. He would have to teach it to perform these tasks, and more… you could teach them all sorts of useful things, he had read. Except humanity. _

* * *

><p>With a rumbling grind of stone on stone, the passageway downwards opened, the grid set in the pedestal becoming a narrow staircase. Muagh inspected the darkness below, then glanced at the guide. At <em>his<em> guide, for all that the fellow behaved as though _he_ were the one with the higher rank, the Sailmaster who commanded this expedition. The Shorebound courier was tucking a crystal sphere back into that flat leather pouch, the only item that hung at the belt of his dark robes, since he seemed to scorn carrying so much as a knife. Foolish of him.

Muagh's own knife, its intricately-carved ivory hilt displaying the skill and sophistication of the long-perished artisans of Clan Waketa, was tucked into the back of his oilcloth britches, hidden beneath his thin cloak. This dark, silken article was the sole concession he had made to these biting, northerly winds. They had travelled further north than he was accustomed to going, except for on those occasions when he was summoned to the Blight-infested shores of the Dead Sea, and thence to _Thakan'dar_, to receive his instructions from the Dark Master of Shadows; the Great Lord's avatar, he who was stirring to touch the world again, to influence events... albeit in the form of a disembodied and disquieting voice that Muagh had to travel all the way to _Shayol Ghul_ to hear. But his power was growing, soon he would be able to take physical form and walk abroad in the world, as it was said he had a thousand years before, during the Trolloc Wars.

Muagh sighed softly, whilst he fiddled with the thick, golden ring in his ear, the chain that connected it to the thicker ring pierced through the septum of his nose brushing his dark, scarred cheek. How he wished he had lived in those days! To have sailed in the vast fleets that ravaged the ports of the Shorebound... his own ancestors had participated in the looting and burning of Allorallen, the great harbour-city of long-dead Jaramide... they had taken many captives and given them all to the salt, as was only proper, to appease the wrath of the Father of Storms... fine times those had been for the Waketa, for the Clan that served the Shadow. Though the forces of the Darkness were gathering once more, slowly but surely... perhaps such times would come again?

Muagh had come south to this barren promontory from such a summons, though not summoned by the Dark Sailmaster at this instance but another, who stood much less high in the grand scheme of things. A courier, come from the Shadow Library. Who was also, it seemed, a guide. And Muagh had not been required to go so far as _Shayol Ghul_ for his instructions on this occasion, since the fellow had been awaiting him upon the shore of the Dead Sea itself. So, much to his annoyance, Muagh had returned south with the sort of despised cargo his Clan carried but rarely... a _passenger_.

Muagh eyed the young man distrustfully... gaunt and pale, an ascetic-looking Shorebound, the feet poking out from beneath the pleated falls of the robe almost as bare as his own, shod in thin sandals. He did not ever seem to feel the cold... This courier had identified himself with all of the correct phrases and signs, which none who had not sworn their oaths to The Great Lord should have known, but there was definitely something about the fellow that set Muagh's teeth on edge. Though he had felt much the same way about other Couriers of the Shadow he had encountered, those rare servants of the Darkness who were accustomed to travelling between the hidden and forbidden places that lay to the far north of _Shayol Ghul_, even... this particular Friend of the Dark might not, strictly speaking, be entirely human anymore...

The Shorebound's dark eyes moved to him and he smiled slightly, as though sensing the direction of Muagh's thoughts. "The way is open," he stated, his speech betraying the melodic accents of the west-coast, Abayan perhaps, or Darmovan. He spoke in the Vulgar, as did most in these days, but for Lords and Bards... Muagh was neither, but equally preferred to use the High Speech in his dealings, the language which he habitually employed in those most distant parts of the world he was accustomed to visiting. Though there were places on the other side of the horizon where even the Old Tongue was unknown.

Muagh moved forward eagerly. The Shorebound did not. He was looking down at where the small, single-masted darter rode at anchor, a dozen bare-chested men and women scattered about its deck.

"They will wait for us?" the Shorebound enquired.

Muagh bared his teeth, the incisors filed to points, in something that was not quite a smile, and indicated the intricate, green tattoo that covered most of his chest. It depicted a fearsome monster of the deep, cruel beak gaping, purple eyes glaring, ten twisting tentacles writhing over his belly and shoulders. He approached the Shorebound, wishing that he could loom. Muagh was tall for one of his people, but this courier was a head taller, which irked him.

"Do you see _this_, Shorebound?"

"The large tattoo? Why, yes. It is a little difficult to miss..." The Shorebound had that half-smile twisting his thin lips, the expression that often made Muagh wish to strike him very hard with his fist.

Muagh tapped his colourfully-decorated skin. "_This_ is the devil-fish. And _I_ am Muagh din Rieta Devilfish! And if I tell my people to _wait_, then they will await our return until such time as the stars fall from the sky and the seas boil away to nothing! Do you even understand such a thing as _obedience?_ May it please the Dark, are there _any_ amongst the Shorebound who know discipline? Who can follow a simple order?"

The Shorebound shrugged his wide shoulders, essayed a smirk. "Precious few..."

"Come..." The one, brief word held a deal of contempt. Muagh led the way, and after a moment, heard sandaled feet scuffing on stone in his wake. They had brought lanterns, but had no need for them as yet, since a bright, silvery light starkly illuminated the long, dusty gallery that lay at the foot of the narrow steps. The luminescence seemed to be emanating from a large metallic plaque set into the wall. Muagh's lip curled at the sight of it. Flame and fang, joined together; the ancient symbol of the shoal-cursed Aes Sedai... they who had broken the world and cast his people out onto the salt, to endure the endless storms for uncounted generations.

Well, reportedly there was something here, in this ancient place... a weapon that might kill them, all of them, every last one of those arrogant women of the White Tower. Perhaps it would even dispose of the Black Sisters, also? He had heard that they were slowly raising their strength to numbers not seen since they were all-but purged from existence a millennia before, in the final, desperate days of the Trolloc Wars... the few who escaped the wrath of the accursed Soldier Amyrlin forced to go into hiding... perhaps, _especially_ them? Muagh hoped that the weapon would not distinguish between Aes Sedai of the Light and those sworn to the Shadow, but would simply kill them all. He did not care for those Black Ajah witches, several of whom he had been forced to have dealings with in the past... they were arrogance itself and knew not the meaning of honour, of holding to a Bargain! Sisters of the sands, the lot of them!

But much as Muagh did not wish to admit it, even to himself, the Waketa had done much the same as the Black Sisters, when the Wars were finally lost... scattered survivors fleeing south, deep into the Sea of Storms, hiding from the pursuing Clans in their island refuges... biding their time until the power of the Shadow began to wax once more, building their ships and breeding the crews to sail them, preparing... and now, Clan Waketa was ready, they were sending their fleets north for the first time in generations. And if the others, those fools who dared to still call themselves _Atha'an Miere_, wished to make war on them, if the Shodein or the Takana or the Catelar or _any_ of those stinkfish wanted a fight – then by the Siren's teats, they would _get one!_

Muagh turned away from the glowing plaque set in the pale, gleaming wall and looked up and down the gallery, which disappeared downwards from sight at each end. "Which way?" he reluctantly enquired of his guide, who had taken an ancient scrap of yellowed parchment from his belt-pouch and was examining it closely by the strange, silver light.

"Either..." the Shorebound answered absently, "both lead to the same place, it would seem." He looked up, smiling in that goading, superior way that had made Muagh wish to wrap a heavy chain about his neck and drop him over the side, practically from the first moment they had met. "There is but one sure way to find out, after all."

Lantern held high, Muagh descended the long curving ramp into a great, domed chamber. He could see the Shorebound doing the same some distance opposite, pacing down another ramp. The fellow raised his own lantern and waved it from side to side in ironic fashion, as though signalling from the deck of a ship.

"I will greatly enjoy killing you, Shorebound," Muagh told him softly, since the annoying land-rat was well out of ear-shot.

A large globe of thick crystal set into the curved ceiling flickered to life, bathing the chamber in a pale, dim light. Muagh lowered his lantern to the dusty floor and went to examine the giant statue beside the heavily-carved marble bier.

"Who was he?" Muagh wondered, staring up at the grimly jocular visage, the furry pelt of some strange Shorebound beast draped across massive shoulders and falling down over the brow... the square jaw, the stern, glowing-eyed gaze...

"Is it not obvious?" the Shorebound guide responded, with a wry chuckle, "he was a _Hero_... they _always_ look like that!"

Muagh scowled darkly, then turned his attention to that which the statue held. He examined the weapon, the great four-bladed axe cradled in the broad, marble hands of the long-dead Hero, cunningly-worked to fit neatly about its thick haft. There was an ancient silver script inscribed along it... Muagh turned his head a little to one side, squinting, his lips moving slowly... he conversed in the High Speech well enough, but these letters were convoluted... something about an agreement, mayhap?

A voice sounded softly over his shoulder, reciting the words;

"_Herewith our Bond agreed_

_for one must bleed, another feed_

_Agreement made in Deed._"

Muagh blinked, glancing suspiciously back at his guide, whose brow was furrowed. He must be something of a scholar of the Old Tongue, for all that he rarely seemed to speak it... when the Shorebound spoke again, he sounded perplexed;

"An odd inscription. It is writ in a type of script that I have seen used for very ancient legal documents, contracts and so forth..." the Shorebound shrugged "...but for the obscure references to bleeding and feeding, it is as though it has been written by an advocate of law, almost... strange... not _quite_ what one would expect to see 'scribed upon the enchanted weapon of a Hero of Legend..."

"_Lawyers!_" snarled Muagh, disparagingly, "I would give them all to the salt!" He turned away from the Shorebound contemptuously, eyeing the finely-worked axe... its silver blades looked to have been forged with the One Power. Such items were rare... and of value. "_That_ is not what I came for," he muttered, then shrugged his bare shoulders, the livid green tentacles inked across them writhing with the movement. "But I will take it anyway." Tattooed hands reached up eagerly but came to a sudden halt just short of the axe, fingertips flattening against an invisible barrier. Muagh snatched his hands away with a vile oath. "What is _that?_" he demanded.

"A Warding of some kind, methinks. A working of the One Power, attuned to a particular person and no other. Not _you_, in any case." The Shorebound smiled mirthlessly. "I have heard of such things... I suspect that if you somehow found yourself in the Heart of the Stone of Tear, and attempted to take-up the sword _Callandor_, you would meet with as little success." He turned his head, dark eyes regarding the _Atha'an Miere _Friend of the Dark with cold amusement.

"My congratulations, good Muagh; it would seem that you have discovered the Axe-that-cannot-be touched!"

Muagh turned away, loath to let this irritating Shorebound see the disappointment in his eyes. Or the murderous intent, either... "No matter," he growled, "the axe is _not _the weapon I came for... where is that which I seek?"

The Shorebound did not answer, but glanced at a _cuendillar_ casket placed at the foot of the tomb. He smiled, secretively. It could not be in there, it was too _small_. Muagh's anger increased, as did his impatience;

"Well, _Friend?_ You have been conveyed hither, though no Gift of Passage given... what of _my_ part? By the Stormfather's beard, there are _two_ sides to every Bargain, Shorebound!"

The Shorebound raised his eyes to the domed ceiling in exasperation, then waved dismissively at the floor. "Down below." He began to root through his belt-pouch. "Beneath, in the catacombs, will you find... your reward..." He sounded distracted, was consulting another of his numerous scraps of parchment. Muagh watched, and waited.

The Shorebound guide then approached the marble tomb and proceeded to push his fingers into some of the carved recesses set into it, shapes that looked like eyes and birds, suns and moons, pressing in a particular order. Muagh moved closer, his bare feet soundless on the ancient stone. A loud click, and the divided lid of the bier began to swing up and open, one end sliding down into the floor, revealing a flight of hidden steps. His guide nodded with satisfaction.

"A useful spy, this 'Jarn' fellow..." the Shorebound mused, "it seems he knew much of this place, and its secrets. I can only hope that the rest of his information was as accurate..." He gestured at the darkness into which the narrow staircase disappeared. "Do I not perform my tasks satisfactorily, _Atha'an Miere?_ Do I not give good service? Again, the way is open..."

"So it is..." Muagh smiled coldly as he took a silent step closer, slipping a hand beneath his cloak, to the ivory hilt that pressed against the small of his back, "...and it seems I no longer have need for your services, Shorebound..."

* * *

><p>When he felt the blade slide beneath his ribs, he seized <em>saidin<em> and lashed out.

* * *

><p>As the knife went deep into the Shorebound's side, Muagh felt flows of air wrap viciously about him, as though he were gripped in the ten powerful arms of the monstrous sea-creature needled into his chest. His victim turned, a snarl of anger and agony on his lips, those deep-set eyes blazing with hatred... and in that brief gaze, in the moment before some implacable force flung him away like a strip of torn sail in a hurricane, Muagh-called-Devilfish, the Terror of the Smoking Seas, saw his own death.<p>

* * *

><p>He was damning himself for a fool. He had ignored the fundamental rule that ensured survival, when one was forced to have dealings with Shadowsworn... always, <em>always<em>, kill _them_ before they kill _you_. Cursing his own stupidity... he had thought that the Darkfriend, the Sea Folk brigand, would attempt his death later, _after_ they had explored the catacombs. He watched from the stillness of the void as Muagh flew violently across the chamber to hit the pale, curving wall with a crunching and cracking of bones, before sliding down to lie in a still heap, the bloody knife falling from a lifeless, tattooed hand. He allowed himself a brief, grim smile.

The sweetness of _saidin_ slipped away, leaving only the oily taint of the Dark One's touch to sicken his belly, along with the tearing pain, deep in his side. He felt weak and light-headed, did not even recall collapsing to the floor... clearly, standing was not an option, so with one hand pressed over the wound to staunch the flow, and leaving a trail of blood behind him, he began to slowly and determinedly crawl toward the heartstone casket set at the foot of the marble bier, resolutely ignoring the intensifying agony occasioned by each wrenching movement. It was only a double-span's distance to the _ter'angreal_-box, but felt like several leagues. Finally, he was there, slumped beside the casket.

Shaking fingers fumbled in his belt-pouch... he ignored the Key, that which he had stolen from the Shadow Library's courier. Along with documents, clothing and identity. According to the accompanying records, the ancient key-_ter'angreal_ had been taken from the body of the 'Second Dragonspawn' (whoever that was). Which was only appropriate, since he had himself obtained it via an act of corpse-robbing...

He pushed his fingers deeper, through the crumpled sheets of rustling parchment, past the familiar outline of his _angreal_, and finally managed to find that which he sought. He drew out the other_ ter'angreal_, the first of such items he had ever possessed... he had found it in an abandoned _stedding_ long ago, as a boy, before he knew that he could even Channel. A flattened, crystal disc with eight facets, coloured blood-red.

This next part was going to be difficult. It was difficult indeed, to compose oneself and assume the _ko'di_ whilst one's life-blood was seeping out of a hole in one's side... but his patience was rewarded as a thin trickle of _saidin_ flowed grudgingly into him and, with further concentration, he caused it to flow from thence, in the form of Spirit, into the _ter'angreal_. The ancient device glowed, a white, pulsing light appearing in its centre, where before the pulse had always flared around the edge, to indicate a direction. An answering light bloomed in the eight-faceted aperture set in the length of the _cuendillar _casket and, with the last of his strength, he pushed it therein. The crystal disc stayed in place when his hand fell away. A deep tone sounded from somewhere, and the blissful-yet-sickening sensation of _saidin_ slipped away from him, as did consciousness.

When his eyes reopened, he was not certain how much time had passed. A raw, red throbbing deep beneath his ribs, though the stab-wound seemed to have stopped bleeding for the time being... but he knew that it would surely break open if he moved, so for the time being he lay still, flat on his back, blinking away the tears that had collected amidst his eyelashes. His vision was hazy even so, blurred from blood-loss, so it took him a long moment to realise that there was a slight, nude woman standing over him, gazing down upon his prostrate form with deep, dark eyes that held... nothing. No compassion for, or satisfaction at, his predicament... no curiosity, even. Nothing at all. The eyes were... dead. No, rather they were the eyes of something that had never lived in the first place, the eyes of a statue or a painting. Something that had been made, rather than born. He smiled warmly.

"Hello, monster," said Guaire Amalasan.

* * *

><p>The Gholam looked down at the dying human without much in the way of curiosity, though the scent of his blood, which had formed a small pool to one side, was of definite interest... it had been a long time since it was last fed. A very long time, if the Stasis Box had fulfilled its function. How many years had passed? It was certainly dustier in here, and the glow-crystal above was casting a fainter illumination than it had. The Gholam's dark eyes moved to the casket in which it had been imprisoned for so long. Crouching, arms extended, as though abasing itself before the Great Lord... it had amused the Traitor to place it in so small and confined a space, set at the foot of the tomb of a Hero of the Light, as though it were some subjugated enemy, the spoils of war – though it <em>was<em> of course – kneeling in submission. Well... it was not in there anymore.

The Gholam's gaze returned to the human. His deep-set eyes were open now, his breathing ragged. And unfortunately, he could Channel. The human smiled, then greeted it, speaking in the Low Chant for some reason, and naming it 'monster.' So, he knew what it was, then. The Gholam had little objection to being referred to as a monster. It had been called that and worse by various of the Chosen over the years. Graendal had always been a particularly insulting Mistress to serve, despite the fact that the Gholam had performed its duties well, including the assassination of a rival upon the Supreme Council of the Shadow. As for Rahvin, he had occasionally required the Gholam to share his bed, an unusual request for even one of his notorious tastes. It had found this an irksome duty. Not what it had been made for, certainly.

Aginor, its original Constructer, had been the politest of those it had served... he had never named it 'monster' certainly... though it was his fault that the Gholam found itself trapped here, and bent to the will of a new Master. Eliminating the Traitor should have been an easy enough mission. This had not proved to be the case.

Vaguely, the Gholam wondered why the dying human spoke in the Low, vulgar tongue that the Traitor had taught to it. Amongst other things. The Gholam well-recalled those many laborious lessons. And they had been the very least of the countless frustrations it had endured at the hands of its new Master. How many times had it longed to taste the blood of Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, on its lips? Well, by the looks of things, it never would now. Clearly, some great amount of time had passed. Perhaps the High was no longer in common parlance? It utilised the same vulgar speech as that in which it had been addressed;

"Thou art injured, human. Dying." The Gholam knelt smoothly beside him. The scent of blood was stronger, this close... and since the human could touch the Source, more compelling than it might otherwise have been, since this ability always added savour to the sustenance. The Gholam hungered. When it first arose from the Box, it had moved to the other, dead human, lying over against the wall, and torn out his throat – but the blood that oozed forth was turgid and congealed, not fresh. Not what it wanted, not at all. Not even warm. Now, _this_ human, on the other hand... the Gholam dipped a finger into the pool of blood and tasted it. It held a flavour and vitality that it had not enjoyed since it was captured... the Traitor had fed it but infrequently, and never with the blood of humans. Except on that one occasion.

"So," observed the human softly, "the information was correct... your kind needs blood to survive."

"Yea, human, verily we do."

"That of humans alone, or would animal blood suffice?"

"Nay," lied the Gholam, "it wouldst not. Human blood, must it be." All this talk of blood, as well as the taste of the stuff on its tongue, had served only to awaken its hunger further. The Gholam leaned closer to the human, eyes fixed on the deep wound in his side, the compelling ichor welling from between the fingers of the hand he had pressed to it. He watched without apparent fear.

"What ist thy name?" the Gholam enquired, hoping that this human would prove to be someone else. Not the one its hated Master had told it about, given it the message for. Not him, but someone whom – if forbidden from actually killing them – it was at least allowed to _eat_...

* * *

><p>"My name is Guaire Amalasan," said Guaire. The creature that resembled a woman looked at him blankly. Guaire shifted to the side a little, wincing at a fresh stab of pain, and indicated the blood pooled beside him. "Help yourself, monster. You must be hungry, after your long sleep."<p>

The slim, unclothed young woman – who was not a woman, but a monstrous living weapon of the War of Power that had merely been fashioned to _look_ like a woman – did not hesitate, but leant smoothly forward from the kneeling posture to lap at the blood on the floor. A hand yet pressed to his injured side, ignoring the pain occasioned by the movement, Guaire raised himself awkwardly on one elbow, watching with interest. Beyond, he could see the ancient _ter'angreal_ he had kept close for all those years, fused into the side of the casket as though it had always been there... and beyond that, he could see Muagh, sprawled over by the wall. He smiled again. Best place for him. There should be at least _one_ set of bones entombed here, after all... and they might as well be _his_. Her sparse and grisly meal done, the blood-drinking monstrosity knelt back up on her heels again. There was a red spot on her pale lips, which she daintily licked off. It was astonishing how _human_ she looked! No-one would ever suspect...

Though she wore not a stitch, Guaire was unmoved by her state of undress. No, not 'she.' Nor 'her.' _It_. This was not a young woman. It was a monster that had the ability to disguise itself as a young woman. He managed a thin smile. It was watching him, pale hands resting on long thighs, dark eyes glittering. It looked oddly... content.

"Did you enjoy my blood, monster?"

"Yea," it answered, continuing to speak the Vulgar with odd, antique accents as it looked on him hungrily, "though I wouldst have more."

"_Would_, not 'wouldst.' " Guaire nodded toward Muagh's corpse. "Try him."

The creature did not seem enthusiastic at this suggestion. "He hast been dead overlong, his blood; sickening to me."

"_Has_, not 'hast.' And cease eyeing me in that way, you look like a starving stray outside of a butcher's shop... you'll get no more blood from _me_, monster."

The creature leant forward slightly, dark eyes narrowing. "Thou willest be dead soon, human. Then, shall I feed."

"_Will_, not 'willest!' And it isn't 'thou' anymore either, it's... oh, just speak to me in the Old Tongue, monster, I probably understand it better than you do!"

"Ye olde... meanest ye High, human?"

"Yes, the High Chant, the Old Tongue, they are one and the same... more or less..." Guaire spoke impatiently, the searing pain of his mortal wound making him unduly irascible. He was feeling distinctly ill, was not sure how much longer he had... he struggled to recall something he had read in the stolen reports... there was a particular kind of _ter'angreal _here, was there not?

The creature made a shrugging motion with its bare shoulders, a surprisingly human gesture, then switched to an archaic dialect of the Old Tongue, speaking in the same flat, toneless voice it had used to communicate in the Vulgar;

"I will derive my sustenance from you post-mortem, human."

Guaire answered in the same language; "yet it might take a goodly while for me to die... why do you not just slaughter me and be about your feasting, monster?"

The creature did not reply.

"You must _wait_ for me to die, must you not?" Guaire speculated.

Still no answer.

"Well?" Guaire pressed it, "here I am, filled with warm and tasty blood... why do you not just open my throat and get on with it?"

The creature frowned slightly. "It is forbidden," it muttered, grudgingly.

"Why?"

"Because you can Channel."

"But... it was my understanding that your kind was made specifically for the purpose of _killing_ those who can Channel?"

"Yes. We were." The creature scowled, thin brows drawing down over those dark and soulless eyes. "It is very aggravating."

There was silence for a time, whilst Guaire considered this. When he glanced up, the monster was still kneeling there, staring at him. Guaire found its blank-eyed gaze somewhat distasteful, more so even than the fact that it quite clearly wanted to drink his blood. "What are you doing?" he demanded weakly.

"Is it not obvious, human? I am waiting for you to die."

Guaire smiled ruefully. Well, fair-enough, he supposed he had left himself open for _that_ remark... but this was no good, he had a destiny after all, confirmed by word of Foretelling... even if those self-same words had emerged from _his_ mouth! Well, some of them had, at least, the rest dated back to the time of Davian, of Yurian Stonebow, some of it even went all the way back to Raolin Darksbane himself... _those_ words had been the hardest for him to translate. Though there were even older Prophecies of the Dragon, dating from the time of the Breaking itself... before, even. And he had read them all! There were few who could say that. Yes, he definitely was destined for something, a place in the histories at the very least... and that destiny in no wise involved bleeding to death upon the floor of some dusty and forgotten tomb...

"It would seem that we are at something of an impasse," Guaire muttered.

"How so?" the monster enquired.

"I am yet dying of a stab wound, whereas you will soon be in an equally fatal and unenviable position..."

"An interesting way for my next meal to view the situation."

"And where will you find your next meal _after that?_"

The monster said nothing.

"In this place? There are not even any rats here for you to gnaw upon! I believe starvation to be a longer and crueller demise than that caused by loss of blood... oh, forgive-me monster, I should not keep mentioning _blood_, most thoughtless of me, you must be famished."

The creature swivelled its waist, lifted its head to look up toward the surface... from where the top of the ramp disappeared into the gallery, a faint silvery glow could be seen. It seemed to shiver slightly, and turned its dark eyes away.

Guaire grinned, the blood trickling between his teeth making the expression suitably macabre. "A whole world out there for you to roam in, monster, full of succulent, warm-blooded humans to drain dry... why, if only there were _not_ an extremely powerful Warding against Shadow-wrought set between you and it!"

The monster looked at him. Its dark eyes seemed to burn a little.

Guaire shrugged, the motion dislodging the elbow he was propped-up on. He fell back to the floor with a groan. Fresh tears of agony further blurred his vision. "Where some see an impasse, _I_ see an opportunity for mutual assistance," he told the ceiling, when he could speak again.

The monster appeared in his frame of vision, leaning over him, not particularly solicitously. "If I save your life, you will disable the Ward and grant my freedom?"

"Your freedom from this place? Yes, monster, if that is what you wish. As for a more personal freedom, that is for you to decide."

Oddly, the creature seemed... uncertain. "I do not know... I have never been free. It was not what I was made for. Always have I done the bidding of another, killed at their behest, fed at their whim. Ever has it been so." It considered a moment. "Though I am required to preserve my own existence, provided that this does not come into conflict with my orders. Seeking to be free of this place would seem to be the best way to accomplish this requirement."

"Well, there is but one way to find out if freedom suits you, monster. The Warding that keeps you 'prisoned here is a wreaking of _saidin_, I can dispel it, albeit with great difficulty... provided that I am _alive_ enough to do so."

Guaire waited... the monster just looked at him. Finally, it nodded. He did his best to not let a smile of triumph cross his features, though he felt rather as though he had just been dealt his fifth card and beheld the painted lady staring censoriously up at him, a white flame balanced on her palm, the Ruler of Flames to go alongside the other four Rulers in his hand... it always felt good, to win. Instead, he dug the sheaf of parchment laboriously from his belt pouch, careless of the blood he smeared on the ancient documents, besmirching them further. Though some of these pages bore the faded stains of someone else's blood, he had noticed. He held a particular scrap up in front of his face, dark eyes scanning the ugly, jagged lettering, the list of _ter'angreal_ that were kept here, in this hidden place; Tabulator, Chronometer... the function of those he could make an educated guess at... Charger, Messenger, whatever _they_ were... where was it? Ah, yes...

"Monster... there is a Restorer down below, in these catacombs? A _ter'angreal_ that provides Healing?"

"There is."

"Then go and fetch it."

"It is too large to move."

Guaire frowned. "I thought that your kind possessed great strength?"

The creature eyed him scathingly. "We do. I mean that it will not fit through the door."

"Oh. Then you shall just have to take me to it, rather than the other way around... this 'minds me of a proverb concerning a man and a mountain."

The creature indeed proved to have great strength concealed in its unprepossessing form. Guaire hissed with pain as he was effortlessly lifted in slender arms, feeling his wound breaking open. He kept his hand firmly pressed against his side, blood-soaked velvet wadded against the torn skin and muscle. The monster's pale face was quite close to his as he lay cradled in its arms, helpless as a child... such an _ordinary_ face, one that would not stand out from a crowd. It did not appear to be breathing, he noted... "Do you have a name, monster?"

"I am a Gholam."

"Go-lam?"

"_Gholam_."

"Oh, I was not aware. Well, I suppose that they had to call you _something_. The records simply refer to you as 'the subject-of-tests.' " The Gholam scowled slightly. "I do not care for '_Gholam_.' I think that I shall continue to call you 'monster.' How many of your kind were made?"

"Six." The Gholam was descending the steps, not particularly carefully, but at least turned slightly to one side so that in these narrow confines, Guaire's head was not being bumped against the wall too often. "The others are all destroyed," it added.

"Oh, I would not be so sure of that – _ouch_, careful monster! – at least another was placed in one of those time-stopping _ter'angreal_, to the best of my knowledge, though I never could find a single clue as to where the device to find and awaken it had been hidden... but no matter, I found _your _key-_ter'angreal_, long before I even knew what it was."

"That was fortunate," the Gholam commented.

"Yes it was, was it not..." turning his aching head, Guaire saw several archways set into a curved wall – the Gholam unerringly chose one "...most fortunate... but then, I am _ta'veren_, after all. Fortune, good or bad, is to be my fate, it would seem."

The Gholam gave him an unreadable glance. Guaire's deep wound continued to bleed, slowly but steadily, as he was carried through strange halls with myriad points of light flickering deep within the walls... or perhaps that was just him, hallucinating? Down more of those ramps, down, down... By the time Guaire was lowered into the crystalline armchair at the end of the oval-shaped chamber, he was feeling distinctly drained, uncomfortably close to death. "What do I do?" he enquired, his voice sounding worryingly distant in his ears.

"Channel webs of Spirit to initiate the Restorer, it will do the rest." The Gholam divested him of his gore-soaked robe by the simple expedient of tearing it open down the front and jerking it up over his shoulders. He could not quite repress a cry of pain as the wadded velvet tore away from his wound.

"Ah! _Gently_, monster!"

It was very difficult to seize _saidin _this time, but for Guaire, self-preservation had always been an extremely powerful motivating force. The Gholam watched, holding his torn robe in its hands, as the chair began to glow, the light intensifying until it suffused Guaire and filled the room. The warm sensation of being Delved that he well-recalled, from when a Village Wilder had once been good enough to diagnose and then cure him of a fever... and then, the powerful Healing weave settled into him. It felt not unlike having boiling hot and freezing cold water poured over him, at the same time. He thought he might have screamed, but was unsure. As the sliced skin and torn muscle knitted back together, Guaire jerked upright in the chair, the tendons standing out in his neck as he stared, wild-eyed up at the ceiling, teeth gritted. Finally, it was done. He slumped forward, head bowed, gasping awhile, before raising his dark, mesmeric eyes to the monster that had saved his life.

The Gholam returned his gaze dispassionately, then trailed a finger through the blood that had collected on an arm of the _ter'angreal_-chair and placed it in its mouth, sucking reflectively. Guaire's head fell forward as he chuckled softly. "You are insolent, monster..." he muttered, "...and you have atrocious table-mann- _uhh!_"

Guaire lifted his gaunt skull, eyes rolling up into the sockets, only the whites showing... his face became a blank mask, his voice a conduit for the Age Lace, his body a vessel through which something prophetic briefly flowed.

The Gholam stared, listening to the garbled words that issued forth, along with a fair amount of bloody froth, from the human's mouth... and though it did not register actual surprise, it did raise its thin eyebrows slightly. The Foretelling went on for a brief time, as it always did, then ceased.

Again, Guaire slumped in the chair, breathing deeply, before he blinked and shook his head, his eyes slowly resuming focus as he examined the Gholam. Which was examining him, in turn, as though not quite sure what he was... its examination held a deal less suspicion than _his_, however. "_Uhhh_... what happened? Did you _hit _me?" Guaire eyed the Gholam accusingly.

"No," it answered, "I did not."

"My head hurts... I was saying something about table-manners and... and then..." Guaire's eyes widened "..._ohhh_... did I Foretell?"

"You do not recall?" The Gholam seemed vaguely surprised by this.

"No, I never do..." Guaire's voice was weary. The Prophecies. The endless bloody prophecies. If he _had_ to have a Talent – that was what the Aes Sedai called such abilities, he believed – then why could it not be something like _Flight?_ That would be a useful skill... enjoyable also, even. It would be a fine conceit, to be able to fly through the air, like a bird. Foretelling, on the other hand, was more curse than gift, in his estimation. Much more. "What did I say this time?" he enquired softly, in the tones of a man who does not particularly care whether he hears an answer.

"Your words were very confused, some relayed in the High Chant, others in the low, vulgar speech." The Gholam considered, for a moment. "You spoke of a city set upon a hill above the sea, a white sapling rising from the waves... also, a man; a caster-of-dice, a turner-of-cards, sounding a Horn... ravens, flying and fleeing... and the Dragon. The Dragon, born again into this World." The Gholam frowned.

Guaire nodded thoughtfully, wondering if this 'gambler' might be a reference to himself, since he had always favoured games-of-chance. He lost them but rarely, and never when his own life was at stake. A Horn... he thought he knew where there might be one of _those_... Guaire then turned a shrewd gaze on the Gholam.

"What know you of the Dragon?"

"I know that he has come before and will come again."

"Well-put, monster." Guaire reclined in the crystalline chair, as though it were a throne... and though he was naked but for his smallclothes, much besmirched with blood and shivering still from the after-effects of so drastic a Healing... for a moment, he _did_ almost seem to resemble a King. He smiled sardonically. "Oh, and by the way, you are currently looking – _hungrily_, I might add! – upon the Dragon's successor." Not without irony, he made a gracious, regal gesture with one hand, as though bidding the Gholam rise from some sort of obeisance, though it was doing no such thing. "Put more succinctly, my good and faithful monster, you stand in the presence of the _Second Dragon_."

At which, the Gholam made an odd, chiming sound in the back of its throat, then knelt before him with smooth grace. It was Guaire's turn to raise his eyebrows. And then, much to his surprise, the Gholam said; "MESSAGE BEGINS," in strange, hollow tones, after which it greeted him, addressed him as 'Second Dragon' and, which was even more surprising, did so in a completely different voice than the flat, emotionless intonation it had thus-far employed. The Gholam was speaking to him in an ancient form of the Old Tongue, using what was unmistakeably superior-to-inferior inflection... and oddly, it was relaying its message in what sounded very like the cultured tones of a rather precise and fussy old man...

* * *

><p>"Greetings, Second Dragon," said Chaime Kufer, <em>Aes Sedai<em>. "What think you of the Gholam? A singular creation, is it not? (A Construction, rather). I would have you know that it was sent to kill me, failed miserably, and now... now, it is _my_ Gholam. I will be long-dead (and hopefully, entirely forgotten) when you receive this message, so I would suppose that you might as well consider it your Gholam now. For the time being. It was made for killing, for the taking of life, but should prove more than adequate at preserving life, also... _your _life. _Set a thief to catch a thief! _Use the Gholam wisely and it will prove a valuable tool – but _never_ forget its dark origins! This creature is evil incarnate, more evil than you, more evil even than _I_... well, you have been warned. On your own head be it.

("Though were I you, I should just destroy the beastly thing. Balefire might do the trick, though then again, it might not... I was never entirely certain, and there was but one way to find out, after all. Besides, it is a vile web and rightly forbidden. I suppose that you might always try shoving the horrid creature through a Deathgate... well, I leave its fate in your hands, and herewith wash my own of any association with this gore-imbibing specimen of Shadow-filth... it shall be a relief to no longer have its dull, dead eyes staring at me...)

"It remains only to say that I should like to take this opportunity to wish you every success in your endeavours, Second Dragon. I knew the First Dragon, better than did most, though we were not exactly friends... he was a fine man, and for all that he has been dead several months now, I yet experience difficulty acclimatising myself to the fact that he is no longer among us. I much regret his passing. But you should know this of Lews Therin Telamon, _Aes Sedai_; that his arrogance proved his undoing... his downfall. As I suppose it did in my case, also, now that I think of it. So, if at all possible, see to it that you do not make that _same_ mistake, Second Dragon... though it is the curse of humanity to endlessly repeat its mistakes, I fear, from one turning of an Age-spoke of the Eternal Wheel, to the next... but I digress...

"Commensurately, let me leave you with one final word of advice, Second Dragon; when you make _your_ mistakes (and you will) do try to make them _different_ mistakes from those which plagued your predecessor. Seek _originality_ in your failures! Oh, and naturally... _trust no-one!_"

Chaime raised the crystal tumbler and took a fiery sip of aged brandy whilst he regarded his Gholam. "Did you get all of that?"

"Yes Master. Shall I repeat the message back to you?"

"Do not trouble to, I loathe the sound of my own voice. I would that there were more who felt as I did concerning theirs. As long as _you_ remember it, that is the main thing."

"To whom should I convey this message, Master?"

"To the next person you meet who uses the title 'Second Dragon' to identify himself, of course. The _addressee_, in other words. _Foolish Gholam! _Cease tormenting me with your incessant queries..."

Chaime turned away from the Gholam, toward the occupant of the sung-wood chair that he might more usually have been occupying himself. He but very rarely received guests here, in his private chambers, hence the paucity of furnishings. Jarn was leaning solicitously over the slender, dark-eyed _Aes Sedai_, proffering a silver tray upon which stood a frosted crystal beaker, filled with a pale green liquid.

"Your pomegranate juice, Deindre Sedai," Jarn murmured, softly.

Deindre was staring at the Gholam with some fascination and it took her a moment to notice the tall _Aiel_ youth. "Oh, my thanks, _Da'shain_," she murmured absently, taking the beverage from the tray but not drinking.

"Honour to serve, _Aes Sedai_." Jarn straightened, glanced enquiringly at Chaime. He wore the _cadin'sor_, his dark hair – darker that was usual for one of his people – cut short in the distinctive style of those who kept the Covenant. There was something of his mother, in his features... Chaime sighed. She had been so very brave, on the night the Myrddraal came for them.

"That will be all, Jarn. Please ask your father to attend us."

"It will be as you say, Master." Jarn bowed gracefully and left on soundless feet.

Deindre was still examining the Gholam. "It looks so human," she observed, in her soft, breathy voice, "but for the eyes."

The Gholam regarded her blankly, to outward appearances a pale and unremarkable young female. It stood before them, clad in the light-grey robes of an apprentice, which it was not. It blinked the eyes in question, slowly.

"You taught it to blink!" Deindre exclaimed.

"No, it already knew how to do that," Chaime responded, "though I have taught it one or two other things..." He smiled, thinly. "Gholam! Give us _The Soldier and the Milkmaid..._"

The Gholam scowled, then began to sing a vulgar song in the Low Chant.

Deindre's grasp of the Low was clearly poor, she frowned with concentration a moment, then glanced at Chaime... "Did the Shadow-Construct just sing something about 'udders?' I am uncertain..."

"Possibly it did..." Chaime waved at the Gholam to stop. It ceased its bawdy singing mid-breath... though it did not seem to need to breathe, as far as he could tell. It stood quiescent before them, still scowling slightly.

"I do not think that the Gholam likes us very much," Deindre murmured, before taking a sip of her pomegranate juice. She sat primly upright in the chair, knees together, swathed in the falls of her shimmerweave robe, scintillating with a myriad variations on the colour purple. She lowered her glass from a delicate mouth. "The eyes are quite lifeless, but when it looks at you especially, Chaime, I imagine that I almost see hatred in them."

"Oh, it is not that exactly, but I take your point..." Chaime addressed his Gholam. "Gholam? What are your feelings concerning me?"

The Gholam's speech was flat and toneless, much like its singing. "You are well-aware that I do not have feelings, Master."

"What think you of me, then?"

"I think that I should like to tear you limb from limb, Master."

Deindre raised her eyebrows slightly. "Goodness! _That_ is what Vora Sedai said that she would like to do to you also, Chaime! Perhaps the Gholam and dear old Vora should get together... they might even enjoy each other's company..?"

Chaime snorted with laughter, managing to spill some brandy on a black, velvet sleeve. He set the glass aside. Special occasion or otherwise, he should not drink during the day... he should save such blessed oblivion for the long nights, when he could not sleep. It helped to keep the ill dreams at bay. The nightmare-amplified recollections of some of the things he had seen, under the Shadow. They would always be with him. Such sights... such sounds... they were impossible to forget.

Deindre did not seem much amused by her tolerably amusing comment, which was characteristic of her. Dark, knowing eyes remained fixed on the Gholam, which was returning her gaze with perhaps a touch of insolence. Chaime recalled that even when the girl had just been a new (and extremely promising) Initiate, in his final days as an Instructor, before he returned to his research... before the Bore, before the Collapse came and the world began to end slowly and painfully, one day at a time... well, back then, young Deindre had oft had the odd habit of saying amusing things without seeming to realise it... and that had been the very _least_ of her oddity!

Chaime glanced at the younger _Aes Sedai_ with a touch of fondness. As usual, her small feet were bare and, he suspected, the soles probably rather grubby. Deindre had always exercised a heart-felt objection to the concept of shoes... as an Initiate at the Academy, she had served several penances from her Instructors for going barefoot to their lectures, though Chaime had personally never bothered to impose such a penalty. He had found it an endearing idiosyncrasy in his favourite student.

Deindre was asking him a question, her eyes still on the Gholam. "Aren't you worried that it might break its reconditioning, and harm you, or someone else?"

"The new set of parameters that I have imposed are strong, and all but impossible to overcome. Allow me to demonstrate. Gholam? I command you to assassinate Deindre Sedai and then to drink all of her blood. Proceed."

The Gholam did not move.

"Go on, what are you waiting for? Enjoy yourself!"

The Gholam glared at him, and yet made no movement.

Deindre blinked, uncertainly. "Should I be worried?" she enquired.

Chaime shook his head. "Whom do you obey, Gholam?"

"The Master."

"And who is your current Master?"

"You are, Master."

"Then logically, you should have obeyed your Master when he gave you a command to kill Deindre Sedai and enjoy her warm and delicious blood..." Chaime smiled, raised an eyebrow; "should you not, Gholam?"

The Gholam produced a surprisingly realistic sighing noise. "I could not for a reason," it stated, somewhat wearily, "a reason that supersedes even my obedience to the Master."

"And what reason is that?" Chaime wondered.

"You know as well as I, for you instilled it in me." The Gholam frowned. "Master," it added, grudgingly.

"Pretend that I do _not_ know. You are good at pretending, are you not, Gholam? Pretending to be a person, in stead of a monster..."

The frown became an outright scowl. "Deindre Sedai can Channel, I sense it in her. With two exceptions, I am not permitted to do harm to one who touches the Source." The Gholam's expression darkened. Chaime might not have taught it to blink, but he _had_ taught it to scowl! Well, he supposed it had a right to be upset. It had been Constructed for the specific purpose of killing _Aes Sedai_ – and he had deliberately robbed it of the ability to carry out this primary function. He had thoroughly enjoyed doing so. There was a pleasing irony to it, in a way...

"And what exceptions are those, Gholam, where you _may_ do harm to one who Channels?"

"If they attempt to harm the Master or Mistress, or should they seek my own destruction, in this order of priority."

"Who _else _may you do no harm to, under any circumstances whatsoever?"

"The _Da'shain_, Master. Those who keep the Covenant and follow the Leaf Way are held inviolate and are not to be touched. Under any circumstance at all."

"Very good, Gholam! Now go and stand quietly in the corner."

The Gholam gave Chaime a look that contained, not hatred, but something that reduced mere hating to a species of mild dislike. Then, it went and stood quietly in the corner. When Chaime turned back to Deindre, she was looking at him over her glass with those soulful eyes that could see parts of the Pattern yet unwoven... which _reminded _him... "Why?"

"Why what, Chaime?"

"Why is it deemed necessary for my Gholam to serve and protect a man who will not be born for upwards of two millennia, a man who will – the Creator only knows _why_ – attempt to claim the accursed title of the_ Kinslayer?_" Chaime frowned. "_Forgive me, my Dragon_," he muttered, under his breath. Though a man of science, of reason, there was yet something rather superstitious about the way he did so.

Deindre blinked slowly, then her breathy tones somehow seemed to fill the large, domed chamber; "I dreamt a dream, of days undawned... without advent of the Second Dragon, there will be no High King... interesting times breed interesting men... without two warring _ta'veren_ the Pattern remains unbent... undisturbed... uninteresting. The High King a mere low King, lost in obscurity... the Hawks will not fly nor the Ravens return... the Dragon shall die in the dust, the Last Battle lost..." her voice trailed away... Deindre blinked again, more rapidly this time, seeming to come back to herself from somewhere very far away... the distant future, presumably.

"But what does any of _that_ have to do with my Gholam?" Chaime demanded, somewhat petulantly.

"Did I not say? I saw a pale, young woman in the dream," Deindre nodded at the Gholam, "her, in fact."

"It."

"She was speaking with a man who was _ta'veren_ and shone brighter than the sun, both clearly standing in the chamber above, beneath the statue of your Eldest Son... it will happen, though not for a very long time. But I recognised the setting, if not the players, so I came to you, Chaime. And having seen the Gholam-"

"_My_ Gholam!

"Your Gholam, then all is made clear."

"I am glad that _you_ think so!" Chaime crossed his arms over the blunt-bladed dagger-_ter'angreal_ hung about his neck. He smiled bitterly. "Personally, despite all of the _other_ vicissitudes of cruel fate that have beset me in the course of my absurdly long life, I nonetheless consider that I must have the Great L- the Dark One's own luck, to have not been born with the 'gift' of Prophecy."

"I concur, Chaime. There are times when it does seem more of a curse."

Deindre was one of the rare ones, those who had begun to touch the True Source at a much earlier age than most. Chaime yet recalled her quiet words, when he first asked her about her Foretelling; _"I had my first True-Dream at the age of nine, Honoured Instructor. I foresaw my own mother's death, in a fatal jo-car collision."_

Chaime sighed. "As is depressingly habitual about our infrequent conversations concerning Prophecy, dear Deindre," he muttered, "I find myself wishing fervently that whatever it was I had asked of you, I had not troubled to! We began with a simple '_why?_' and look where it has led us! As ever, the answers only serve to raise further questions..." He made a spluttering sound. "Glad, I am, that I deal in the natural rather than the metaphysical!"

"Some call what you do unnatural, Chaime." Deindre shrugged in response to his glower. There was no note of malice or accusation in her words, she was simply stating a fact. And was one of the few people who had continued to treat him in the same fashion after he returned from the under the Shadow, much as she had before. Chaime valued this quality in Deindre far more than he did her words of Foretelling.

Ledrin appeared in the archway, tall and barrel-chested... white streaks in his short, fiery hair, the lines on his face deeper than they had been... the _Da'shain_ was getting old... Chaime sighed. So was _he_. Near halfway to his seventh century... that was not merely _old_, it was _ridiculous!_ Ledrin bowed low, waited patiently. Patience was an attribute of the Dedicated, and the old _Aiel _was particularly good at it.

Chaime's gaze returned to Deindre, somewhat accusatory. "The instrumental point of that bizarre message which I have just given to my Gholam – at your behest and that of your 'friends' also, I suspect – is that you now owe to me a favour!" He scowled and uttered a rustic proverb in the Low; " _'a sow for a cow or a cow for a sow, but nothing gets you nothing!' _"

Deindre blinked. "I wish that you would stop saying things in that vulgar speech, Chaime, I barely comprehend it... something about some cattle, perhaps?"

"Focus on the 'favour' part of what I just said, Deindre dear."

Deindre's brows drew down a little. "What boon do you require in return for your co-operation, Chaime?"

"A simple request. I wish for you to neglect to tell anyone, _particularly_ should they sit in a certain Hall, that Chaime Kufer, _Aes Sedai_, the disgraced Defector who used to have a Third Name until they _stole_ it from him, is concealing a Shadow-wrought Gholam in the hidden facility to which he is not supposed to have access!"

Deindre blinked, then smiled faintly, with a smooth and assenting inclination of her head. "Oh, you ask for my _discretion_. Well, you have always had that. It will be as you say, my old Instructor."

"I am glad to hear it. For if the Sitters found out about my Gholam, never mind what _else _I have been up to, then they really would sever me this time... or worse..."

Deindre nodded thoughtfully. "Especially given that you no longer enjoy the Dragon's patronage..." she sighed softly, and whispered; "_a smoking mountain, the tomb of all hope..._"

Chaime did not hear, was continuing to darkly muse over his imagined fate. "The Hall have been out to get me for years, Latra especially... severing definitely, perhaps they might even reach for the binding-rod, also... and watch with satisfaction whilst I crumbled into dust, no-one aged over four-hundred has ever survived it..."

"You are being rather morbid, Chaime. Your secret is quite safe with me."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Chaime inclined his head slightly to Deindre, "and there are not many alive from whom I would take such an assertion at face-value."

Deindre thought about it, realised that it was a sort of compliment, and nodded graciously. She rose, moving to the archway, her bare feet scuffing on the elstone. Ledrin took her glass, then held out a rather shabby rain-lace cape. Deindre turned, and the _Da'shain_ draped it carefully over her shoulders. She smiled up at him.

"Thank-you, Ledrin."

"Honour to serve, _Aes Sedai_."

"Gratifying to be served, _Da'shain_. And how have you been?"

"Well enough, Deindre Sedai... yourself?"

"Not too bad, I would suppose... though I have oft had difficulty sleeping of late... oh, _that_ was what I wanted to tell you, Ledrin, that I saw the Thirdborn the other night, in the Dream..."

"The Young Master! How was he, if I may ask?"

"He looked fine and fit, he was chasing something I seem to recall, so I only glimpsed him very briefly."

Ledrin smiled fondly. "Ah, _Aes Sedai_, the Young Master did always like to chase things, I so assure you..." The old _Aiel_ shook his head in pleasant reminiscence, then glanced enquiringly at Chaime, who was twisting thoughtfully at one of his long, thin moustaches, whilst he considered whether or not to share with Deindre an aspect of his own commitment to the victory over the Shadow. She had seemingly just done so with him, after all... he owed her a sow for her cow, possibly... and besides, he wanted someone other than Ledrin to know of his most recent success, his greatest work. Not that he was not proud of his Sons, nor displeased with the way the enormous Hound had turned out, it had proved very useful in the field, even more so than the gigantic Wolf he had Constructed back at the Dragon College... but that had been a side-project only, not the culmination of twenty years of careful preparation.

Ledrin coughed politely. Chaime glanced at him. "I am to escort Deindre Sedai back to her hoverfly, Master?"

Chaime came to a decision. Well, it had been a day for revealing secrets, after all. And he trusted Deindre, far more than he did her 'friends,' Solinda and the rest of them, busy pulling their strings behind the scenes, as ever...

"You are, Ledrin... but first... be so good as to take dear Deindre to see the Young Mistress. She will doubtless relish an interruption to her lessons..."

Ledrin sighed. "That she will, _Aes Sedai_..."

Chaime smiled at Deindre. "I think it high time the two of you became acquainted." After Deindre Sedai had raised her eyebrows, shrugged, and departed with Ledrin, Chaime glanced at the Gholam that had been sent to kill him. It was still standing silently, over in the corner, watching him coldly. The creature of the Shadow he had trapped with the aid of an extremely cunning device that a former apprentice had designed for him, for just such an eventuality. Gwili had laughingly called his invention 'the Djinn-bottle.'

Young Gwilim had been the worst apprentice he ever had... his favourite apprentice also, oddly enough. An utterly useless Biologist, but with a real flair for spatial and temporal mechanics. This had arisen later in life, after something of a personality shift occasioned a drastic career change on his part. As well as an acquired ability to see abstract forms in more than four dimensions, combined with a less than linear view of Time itself... but then, poor Gwili had never been quite the same after his experience with the Eelfinn. Before he walked through that accursed _ter'angreal_-gate in the hidden _Collam_ beneath Hob's Hill, he had at least been sane... when he walked out again, a century later, he most certainly was not... though in partial recompense for his strange ordeal, Gwilim Sedai had become something of a genius, along the way. The price had been high, though. Sanity, or the lack thereof... Chaime seized and held _saidin_, labouring against the limiting drag of the Drogue.

"Gholam, do you yet sense it?"

"Yes Master, it is still there."

Chaime frowned. It had been several months since the Strike on _Shayol Ghul_ and the perceived end of the War... though the warring continued, and would doubtless never cease, especially if what his Sons sensed about Ishamael was accurate. But the Bore was sealed, _Shai'tan_ no longer able to touch the world... that was something, at least. Months since the Strike, and still no contact with the surviving Companions to the Dragon, nor any inkling as to why Lews Therin Telamon had experienced extreme psychosis and committed so heinous an act... and for all of those months, his Gholam had been reporting that it sensed something... something different, about _saidin_. Some sort of impurity that had not been present before the War ended. Chaime was prey to certain dreadful suspicions concerning this; a sting in the tail, a defence mechanism that he had overheard Aginor speak of once, concerning chaos... madness... and entropy.

The Hundred Companions... whatever had struck the Tamyrlin, was it affecting them also? A more than troubling thought, he could only hope that there were much less than one-hundred of them left, in that event... there had been unconfirmed sightings of Companions up there, in the Blasted Lands far north of the Blight, but no-one sent from the Hall of the Servants to confirm these reports had yet returned. Or was likely to, by the looks of it... Which was why, independent of the Hall's fumbling efforts, he had sent Taw. If anyone could locate the missing Companions and assess their condition, then it would be him.

Strange, the two of them rarely saw eye to... well, they rarely agreed on anything, but the Secondborn had answered his summons less grudgingly than he did usually and had seemed to share in his conviction that the victory of the Light over the Shadow might not be quite so complete as the majority wished to believe... that something, somewhere, was horribly, terribly wrong.

"_Either that, or we are both just the most dreadful pessimists, Father!_" Middle Son had whisperingly observed, with a hollow, echoing laugh, as he took his leave. Yes, if anyone could locate the missing Companions, it would be Taw. But it should not have taken more than a month for him to do so, given his particular skills... it was incredibly dangerous enemy territory up there, even for _him_... had he sent Middle Son to his death? Chaime was starting to worry. If Taw did not return soon, he might have to send Tro...

The Gholam was still watching him. Reluctantly, Chaime released the Source, let the small amount of _saidin_ that was all he could hold since the Hall's sentencing, flow out of him. At this early stage it did not feel any different, as far as he could tell... possibly the report concerning the taint on the male half of the True Source was another of the Gholam's attempts at deception? But he did not think so, in this instance, much as he wished to. It was all too... imaginative.

"Gholam."

"Master?"

"Return to your cell and remain therein until summoned. You will find a pig there. You may feed." Chaime frowned. "Try not to make such a mess, this time."

The Gholam nodded, began to leave. Chaime raised a stilling hand, it paused.

"Oh, one more thing... an addendum to the message you are to give to this Second Dragon, when and if he lets you out of your Box..." Chaime spoke the addition to his message whilst the Gholam listened and scowled, then dismissed it.

"Enjoy your pig!" he told it, on the way out. Chaime was not sure, but he thought that the Gholam made a sort of low, snarling, frustrated noise that echoed slightly in the glowing tunnel, as it stalked away.

After trapping his would-be assassin, Chaime had conducted a systematic series of tests over the course of three frenetic months, and then reluctantly concluded that he had learned all that could be learned from the tissue samples taken from the Gholam. He had then considered destroying it, or even perhaps (under controlled conditions) letting young Tro do the destroying, since he needed the valuable combat experience. There were other Gholamin left over from the War, at least two... he might have to face one or both of them, one day... and besides, Youngest Son was always rather insistently asking him if he could fight the Gholam... he was a good boy, it would make him happy... and it was what he had been made to do, after all. Well, _one_ of the things he had been made to do, at least.

But Chaime had always relished a challenge... had come to the realisation that it would be far _less_ of a challenge to destroy the Gholam than it would be to alter its behavioural modifiers, so instead of sacrificing his test-subject he decided to attempt its reconditioning instead. With some success. Though there had been set-backs along the way, as there were bound to be with so innovative an experiment... the Gholam had nearly killed him twice and it was unfortunate, that which happened to young Korvin... or at least, it would have been had not the ill-fated Apprentice proved to be a spy for the Renegades and a Friend of the Dark to boot... the Gholam had not cared about Korvin's professed allegiance to the Shadow, it had just drunk his blood anyway. It could be somewhat self-centred when it came to its own sustenance...

Of course, the Gholam was undoubtedly tainted by the Shadow... as was _he_, for that matter... as was _saidin_, also, he was beginning to fear... but even so, Chaime Kufer, _Aes Sedai_, had always held a firm belief in the concept of turning an enemy's weapons against them.

* * *

><p>"...<em>trust no-one!<em> MESSAGE ENDS."

There was a pause, in which Guaire assumed that the Gholam had finished relaying its bizarre missive. It was strange indeed to hear the voice of an old man emerge from the mouth of what was ostensibly a young woman, and odd the way that at one point, the smooth, cultivated Old Tongue had become a rustic and archaic Vulgar, uttering a proverb concerning thieves catching more thieves... though Guaire took his point. He found himself grudgingly admiring this knowledgeable (if insufferably supercilious) stranger... he wondered who he was, who he had been? A male Aes Sedai, some confidante of the Dragon, it seemed... he would ask. Guaire opened his mouth-

Suddenly, the Gholam blinked its dark eyes and said; "MESSAGE ADDENDUM," in the hollow tones, before continuing in the old man voice;

"Oh, and one more thing, Second Dragon... your Gholam will undoubtedly attempt to deceive you into holding the belief that it requires the blood of humans alone, in order to survive. This is a lie, and be warned that your Gholam will lie to you at every given opportunity... I was never able to rid it of that ability... in any case, pig or sheep blood make a perfectly acceptable substitute."

The Gholam closed its mouth and knelt there, looking at him. Guaire reached out for his robe and the Gholam passed it to him... it was sticky with blood and badly torn, especially down the front, but Guaire slipped it over his shoulders in any case, belting it closed, not unlike a dressing-gown. "Sheep or pigs, eh?" he muttered, as he did so.

"My preference is for human blood," the Gholam stated, somewhat fastidiously, "that of animals lacks savour."

"Well... we shall see about that." Guaire grinned. "Livestock is uncommon expensive at this time of year, you know... I do hope that you shall not cost me too much to feed, monster!" The Gholam just looked at him, blankly. "Sheep? Pigs? Do you seek to beggar me? Could not you make do with vermin? There are plenty of inexpensive rats and pigeons available for you to suck upon..."

"You jest, of course," observed the Gholam.

"I do not!" The Gholam did not attempt to gainsay him further and clearly found his attempts at humour more than a little tedious. Guaire sighed. "Come, monster, let us depart. I have had my fill of this place."

The Gholam rose and provided an arm for him to lean on as they made their slow way back up to the great, domed chamber, but Guaire was feeling more than a little dizzy and light-headed by the time they had ascended the narrow stairway. He closed the entrance to the hidden steps, then sat at the sandal-shod feet of the statue, breathing heavily.

Guaire glanced at the Gholam. The cold did not bother him, of course, and the Shadow-wrought creature did not seem overly troubled by it either, for all that it was still quite bare. "Do you wish to find something to clothe yourself with, monster?"

"I care not."

The Gholam was looking above his head, up at the statue, and for a moment Guaire imagined he could see hatred, perhaps tinged with a hint of fear, in those dead eyes. He followed the Gholam's gaze, and realised that it was looking, not at the marble effigy of the dead Hero, but at the _weapon_ held in those carven hands... at the-

"Howling-Axe," the Gholam muttered, but did not elucidate. Guaire saw residues well enough, could detect the network of glowing _saidin _weaves, but with gaps where something that he could not see was seemingly interwoven with them... _saidar_, presumably. The barrier that guarded the weapon had been made by male and female Aes Sedai, working together. He wondered if they would ever do so again?

Guaire leant heavily upon the Gholam as they haltingly ascended the ramp. Its skin felt cold to his touch, colder than it should have... but very like skin, for all that. The closer they approached to the silvery glow of the Warding, the slower the Gholam moved. Finally, it stopped. "I will go no nearer." Again, there was something almost akin to fear in its eyes. "The light would destroy me."

Guaire wondered if that might not be for the best... but he had come this far, there was no turning back now. It would take a deal of the power to dispel this ancient Ward, so he took the age-darkened statuette from his belt-pouch, feeling the familiar shape in his hand, running his thumb over the point of the sword held across the knees of the rotund, smiling man, sitting cross-legged.

Guaire drew heavily on the male half of the True Source through the _angreal_, feeling the Power that turned the Great Wheel building up inside, his heart lifting as it filled him with life, his gorge rising as the Dark One's Taint rose from the depths of the ambrosial chalice of _saidin_, a bitter and deathly aftertaste... Guaire ignored it all, summoning the complex weaves required to destroy this powerful Warding... there were many techniques that he somehow knew, that he had somehow _always_ known, and this was but one of them. He prepared to Channel. But then, he hesitated...

Guaire could not help but wonder... what if the Gholam had lied? Its mysterious former Master had warned that it would do just that, had he not? With his intercession, he had caught it in a lie, after all. What if... what if _all_ of it had been a lie, everything he had been told; the Gholam supposedly not being permitted to harm him, the blood, the message itself, even... all a convoluted deception that would confound his suspicions and lead him surely, by the nose, to a task that he was on the very point of performing... undoing an ancient Ward and freeing a blood-drinking monster into the world. He had done many questionable things in the last few years, committed dark acts in the course of his wanderings, his studies... but letting loose this terror of the Shadow would surely be the worst?

Put like that, it seemed that he was about to commit a great and terrible crime. But then, he was the Dragon Reborn, and ordinary standards of morality could not apply to him. Not if he was to unite the divided Nations under one rule, and lead them to _Tarmon Gai'don_. And even if he were _not_ the Dragon, born again into the world... even if the accursed Prophecies concerned someone else, their Thread yet to be spun out, and his supposed destiny led only to a scaffold... well, it was still a better fate than being brought back to Tar Valon on a rope, like a horse led to market, another poor, grateful madman taken to be gentled for his own good...

Besides, Guaire had set mere moral concessions behind him long ago... so he Channelled. When the Warding was gone, the silvery light faded away to nothing, he could not prevent himself from giving the Gholam a wary, sidelong glance. It had been released and no longer had need of him... would it now turn on him? Channelling would avail him little in that event, by all accounts... though he retained his grip on _saidin _even so... he knew the weave for Balefire, but would use it only as a very last resort, as he had with the Darkhounds that pursued him to the shores of the Dead Sea... the old man had also mentioned something called a 'death-gate' had he not? He thought he had an idea what that might be...

The Gholam walked toward Guaire, black eyes glittering... then past him, down along the gallery. Guaire turned, followed at a distance, then paused and watched when the Gholam came level with the steps leading to the open air above. It looked upwards. The daylight falling across its face revealed a strange expression that he had not previously seen upon its pale, blank features... it looked... _eager_.

Guaire took a deep breath. "I require your service, monster. I should not have sought you, else. I have plans that I would see consummated. I have a destiny, which certain women (who inhabit a White Tower of which you will not have heard) will seek to impede. Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah, too many for me to deal with alone... which, incidentally, is where _you_ will come in..." He cleared his throat slightly. Nervously, even. "Well? Do we have an understanding... Gholam?" He waited.

The Gholam turned its head, gazing at him consideringly for a long moment. "You said that you preferred to name me 'monster.' "

"True. But it seems a little... rude. You are what you are, after all, but there is no need to constantly rub your face in it." Guaire shrugged. "Besides... the word has grown on me." Would it come, when he called? Well, there was but one way to find out. "Come here, Gholam."

The Gholam came toward him, moving slowly and sinuously, like a snake. Halted right before him. Then, it knelt. "Command me, Master."

Though still cautiously holding _saidin_, Guaire had not realised that he had also been holding his breath. He let it out slowly. "Oh, I _will_ command you, Gholam." It looked up at him, expectantly. "Later, I would like you to tell me _everything_ that you know about the War of Power." The Gholam blinked its dark eyes slowly. No doubt it was unused to a request that did not involve murder… but even so, Guaire was quite certain that in the course of their association he would satisfy it in that regard, many times over. He would now, in fact. "But as to your first command… hmm… do you know how to swim, Gholam?"

"Yes, Master."

"There is a small sailing-craft moored near to this place. I command you to swim out to it and kill everyone on board." The Gholam rose fluidly to its feet. "Wave to me from the deck when you are finished and I shall come over in the boat." If he could manage the oars... well, he would have to, though he still felt weak from the Healing. Thank the Creator for that Restorer! He would be dead without it. Though perhaps, considering the sort of company he was keeping these days, it would be better not to thank the Creator for anything... in addition to the fortuitous Healing-_ter'angreal_, he owed his life to a creature of the Shadow, after all.

But that did not make him a servant of the Shadow himself. The soberly-garbed man who wore the lace at his throat and cuffs and had eyes that burned with an unholy flame had oft appeared in his dreams of late... at least, until he had learned how to ward them. The man – and he had strong suspicions about _his_ identity – had promised him dominion over all of creation, asking little in return... requiring only that Guaire bow to his Dark Master, that he acknowledge the supremacy of the Great Lord... that was all. For Guaire, this was too high a price to pay, and would remain so. Besides, he loathed Darkfriends and their filthy oaths, always had... he would throw himself upon the mercy of the Red Ajah before he would sing praise to the Dark One, before he would grovel before _Shai'tan _alongside those self-deluding, Shadowsworn fools! There was but one Master that Guaire Amalasan had ever been prepared to serve – himself.

Guaire staggered a little as he released _saidin_, his exertions and ordeals catching up to him as the painless tranquillity of the void slipped away. He felt faint. The Gholam was at his side in an instant, snaking a supportive arm about his shoulders, half-leading, half-carrying him over to the curving balustrade of the ramp, upon which he leant. His head was spinning, and he was ravenous. It was close in here, dusty. The Gholam stood before him, awaiting further instruction, dark eyes observing without judging. "I don't suppose that you know how to row a boat?" Guaire enquired, weakly, and without much hope.

"I do not, Master."

"Well, there it is. Go, now. Kill them all." The Gholam did not move. It seemed to be waiting for something. Ah, yes. "_When_ they are all dead and you have waved to me, Gholam…" it seemed to tense a little "…_then_ you may feed."

At this, the Gholam did something that even Guaire Amalasan, the Second Dragon, found disturbing... it smiled. Turned, and walked smoothly toward the stairs. When his monster disappeared from sight, Guaire fought the urge to sigh with relief, and did not quite succeed. Then, he steeled himself for the coming trials. He had a standard to raise, followers to recruit, a world to conquer... there was much to do.

* * *

><p><strong>Part III: ...Happily Ever After<strong>

"What happened after that, Dread Mistress?" Ranim wondered. A shame, that the 'Go-lam' had not been down there, he considered... it sounded a worthy adversary for the Dragonspawn... though he should much prefer to kill the creature himself.

Arachnae Kirikil shifted uncomfortably. The youth was slight in build and did not weigh so much but he was still no child and she would be glad to have him off her lap... She smiled, that warm, grandmotherly smile, so at odds with her true – and rather frightening – nature. "After that? _After_ he stole the _Gholam_ that was rightfully mine? Oh, it is a long story and I imagine that you already know the gist of it as well as any, dear... that wicked boy flew his banner across the sky and declared himself to be the Dragon, built armies and besieged cities and shook the land to its very foundations. At least, until he met the Hawkwing that final time, down near Endersole... and was caged, gentled and went to meet the headsman with a smile upon his lips. He probably still believed that he was the Dragon Reborn right up until the very end, the poor, mad fool!" Arachnae chuckled, shaking her head, before continuing;

"Guaire Amalasan made humanity tremble at his very advent, as False Dragons have done before him and have continued to after, Wheel without end... until such time as our Great Lord is set free into the world, and _breaks_ the Wheel, naturally..." Arachnae shrugged. "Amalasan did better than most, granted... that young Ablar fellow made a respectable attempt, of course, though the imbecile Taim did not even come close! And now, I hear there's a _new_ one... tsk! Some young rascal who's raised his standard down south... Almoth Plain, perhaps... he has one of those silly, old-fashioned west-Andor names, 'el'Thror' or something like that..."

They were coming in to land now, just beyond the cliffs. Arachnae gave her Draghkar a dark glare, shaking a knobbly finger at them. "_Careful now_," she warned, "_or it will be me eating your shrivelled souls for dinner, vileness! Knock my poor old bones about one more time and I promise you'll get a taste of your own medicine!_"

Though they did not necessarily _have_ souls, the Draghkar took the threat to heart. They redoubled the furious beat of their wings, descending slowly. Extremely slowly. Resuming the Vulgar speech, Arachnae finished her tale;

"Guaire's star rose, as it inevitably must for one who is _ta'veren_, and then, as they always do, his star fell." She patted Ranim on the knee. "And the moral of _that_ story, my petal, is that no matter how far we might soar, high enough to shake the heavens and challenge the Creator... well, at the end of the day, we are all just slaves to fate. Even you, Ranim-dear, even me... even the Second Dragon."

The basket settled gently to earth in the lee of a tall cliff, where a temporary encampment had been set up; shabby tents and ill-constructed shacks, cold iron cauldrons nestling in the ashes of spent fires. A quite deserted camp, given that the Darkfriends were all dead, the Trollocs mostly drowned, the few surviving Myrddraal had provokingly ridden their shadows to somewhere else, far away... and as for the Draghkar... well, there was no sign of _them_, either. But for the foul, bat-winged Shadowspawn that bore her conveyance through the air, of course. They collapsed about the basket, leathery pinions furled, narrow chests heaving from the effort.

Arachnae regarded them with the usual disfavour, but a hint of curiosity, also. Really, it should not have been possible for even eight of the creatures to haul her basket aloft and bear it any great distance, since they had only sufficient muscle density to raise their own thin-boned, meagre weight into the air. She had dissected more than enough Draghkar to come to this incontrovertible conclusion. But somehow, they managed. She suspected that there was something about the creatures that defied natural, physical law... as with the Myrddraal, she supposed, though to a lesser extent...

A whinny drew Arachnae's attention, interrupting her musing. Strangely, there was a chestnut gelding with a high-pommelled, Saldaean saddle harnessed on its back, bridle tethered to a tent peg. _That_ had certainly not been there when they left...

* * *

><p>Ranim clambered carefully off his Dread Mistress's lap and exited the basket with some relief, regarding the horse suspiciously as he did so. There was something hairy tied to its saddle... He drew his dark, <em>Thakan'dar<em>-forged blade. The Mistress groaned, rubbing at her knees as he helped her out of the conveyance. "You've put on the pounds, lad!" she commented, "been eating too many pies filched off goodwife's windowsills, you young tearaway!"

Ranim blinked. He knew that he had _not_ gained weight in the last weeks, quite the opposite, in fact... nor had he had occasion to eat pie since he left the wagons, he barely even recalled what it tasted like... then, he realised that it had been meant as a witticism. He wished the Dread Mistress would not do that, she perfectly well knew that he had absolutely no sense of humour. Still, if the Mistress to whom he had pledged his life and loyalty wished to jest... Ranim's blank face writhed slightly as he attempted an appreciative smile.

Arachnae sighed. "Never mind." She swatted him on the rump. "You're too _skinny_, if anything... we'll have to put some meat on your bones, boy!" She turned her attention to the area over the cliffs. "I wonder if my filthy flock met with any success..." she mused, though without much in the way of hope colouring her tones, shading her small, dark eyes as she scanned the grey skies.

"They did not, Dread Mistress." The voice came from above, speaking in slow and sensual cadences, a drawling Domani accent.

"Well, no great loss," muttered Arachnae absently, then lowered her gaze and smiled warmly. "Milly-dear!"

A tall and lushly beautiful young woman was making her assured way down the cliff-path, sliding a telescopic looking-glass closed with a firm twist of her slim, long-nailed hands. Her pale gown of thin and almost sheer silk was scandalous, even by the standards – if such a term could be applied in this instance – of her home Nation. Whilst revealing little in the way of copper-shaded skin, it suggested much and promised more. The young woman navigated her undulating, hip-rolling way around a pair of crouching Draghkar with evident distaste, then swayed to a halt beside the basket. Her hair was a lustrous jet-black, coiled atop her head in intricate braids, held in place with long, silver pins. She curtsied to Arachnae, somehow managing to make the graceful motion seem demure yet flagrant, at the same time.

"And when did you arrive, my girl?" Arachnae enquired.

"Oh, just now, grandmama..."

Ymilla Nadona leant down and embraced Arachnae Kirikil, her full lips pressing a kiss to each leathery old cheek, before turning a dark-eyed, sidelong glance on Ranim, that held equal amounts of derision and provocation. He stared back.

"The Draghkar... all dead, eh?"

"I am afraid so..." Ymilla sighed, gustily.

"Well, I did not think that they would be up to the task, somehow... useless creatures!" Arachnae glared spitefully at her few remaining Draghkar, who cowered.

Ymilla nodded smoothly. "I have never much cared for the things either... one of them tried to kiss me, once! Almost as bad as having a _Taraboner_ do so, with his silly veil and moustache getting in the way!" They laughed, Arachnae giving vent to her habitual cackle, Ymilla tittering girlishly.

"Oh grandmama, it is lovely to see you again!"

Ranim frowned, feeling his grip tighten on the hilt of his blade a little. He did not much care for this particular 'prentice and had absolutely no idea why the Dread Mistress let her call her _that_, of all things... they were not blood relations, certainly... but the ways of women were passing strange, he had often observed. The Mistress always had her apprentices use such names, some variation on the term 'grandmother' at least... it was one of her peculiar traditions, which he knew better than to question, even had he the inclination to do so.

Ymilla glanced at the dark-bladed dagger in his hand. "I see that your industrious Tinker-boy has finally earned his precious present!" she exclaimed.

Ranim scowled. "That he did. And I see that you are still dressing up like a dockside harlot," he retorted, stolidly.

Ymilla glared dangerously, began to open her mouth...

Arachnae slapped at Ymilla's wrist chidingly, then wagged a cautionary finger at Ranim. "Now, don't start! It has been a _very_ trying day and I won't stand for the two of you sniping away at each other. Play nicely, children!"

Ranim sheathed his blade, though did not particularly wish to. "_She_ spoke ill of me _first_, Dread Mistress," he muttered, "and she _does_ look like a dockside-"

"Oh, why don't you make yourself useful and go and mend some _pots_ or something?" Ymilla snapped.

Arachnae scowled. "_Hush_, or I shall fetch my paddle!" They hushed.

"Sorry, grandmama..." Ymilla noted the bandage on Arachnae's arm, where there were spots of blood that had not been there prior to her recent exertions. "Oh, but you are _wounded_... it is bleeding!"

"Well, my sweetling, that is what wounds tend to do."

"Let me help you with that." Ymilla began to carefully unwind the bandage, the Dread Mistress grumbling and occasionally hissing as she did so. Though not near so put-out as she had been when she _first_ received the hurt...

"_Oh, that horrid monster! That nasty nightmare! Just _look_ what it did to my poor arm! It shall pay... oh, it shall rue the day!"_

"_That it will Dread Mistress, that it will." _

Ranim was still confused about that night, a week ago... he had been guarding his Mistress whilst she slept, as he habitually did, when she had abruptly awoken with a shriek that held equal amounts of pain and hatred, sitting bolt upright beside the camp-fire, clutching at that web-shaped pendant of hers, the chain snapped. Before his disbelieving eyes, four long, parallel gashes had appeared instantly upon her forearm, bleeding profusely. They looked as though they had been made by claws... how had she been injured in this way? While he was well-aware that the Dread Mistress had great power and ability garnered in her long years of study, that she could do things that were very much outside of the ordinary, walking in dreams being but one of them... surely there was nothing in a mere _dream_ capable of causing such harm to _her_, of all people? At least, there had _not_ been... not until they came here, to this accursed place at the end of the world, where the former contents of a now-empty _ter'angreal_-box had begun to cause them so much trouble.

Ranim had his suspicions, in any case. He had not yet told the Dread Mistress about his odd meeting with the creature, the 'Dragonspawn' as it was apparently called... he was not yet sure if he was going to. It was not the same as lying, it was merely neglecting to add something to his report, though he had never done so before... but he had _failed_, failed to kill the Dragonspawn, and did not wish his Mistress to know of this failure... he had never failed her before, certainly... and he never would again... he _would_ kill it, the next time... somehow...

A blood-spotted bandage was thrust unceremoniously in Ranim's direction. "Dispose of that, Tinker!" Ymilla ignored his scowl, leaning close over the four long, scabbed wounds, biting her full lower lip with concentration as she ran her hands up and down Arachnae's arm. The wrinkled flesh around the gashes was inflamed. Gradually, the redness faded, but when the scabbing and dried blood were cleaned away, there yet remained four long, white scars to mar the skin.

Ymilla shook her head ruefully. "I am sorry, grandmama, but that is the best that I can do, I am afraid... it looks rather as though you were clawed by a mountain lion or a leopard or some such... had I been there when it happened, then perhaps..."

"That is quite all right, dear, I know that your talents lie elsewhere, and at least it doesn't sting so much now..." Arachnae sighed and began to roll her sleeve back down "...it is the thought that counts, after all, Milly-dear, and it's not as though I have anything to be vain about anyway, perhaps a couple of hundred years ago I had quite smooth and shapely arms, but I am just a bony, wrinkly old thing these days! That is a very nice frock, by the way..."

"Oh, do you like it?" Ymilla performed a graceful – if somewhat brazen – twirl. "I picked it up in Bandar Eban whilst Duadh and I were waiting for that Sea Folk Friend to get back from _Shayol Ghul_, or wherever it was that they had their big meeting..."

"Ask young Ranim, he was there."

Ranim shrugged. "It was very far to the north, but it could have been anywhere, it was not a real place. The fires looked real, but cast no heat."

"Huh. Enlightening. You should have sent _me_, Dread Mistress." Ymilla recalled her original topic; "anyway, whilst we were kicking our heels, waiting for the annoying fellow to finally turn up (the _Atha'an Miere_ is dead now, by the way, Duadh killed him) I was able to do something I haven't been able to for a good long while – go shopping! (I bought you a new shawl by the way, grandmama, though I left it on the boat). So _nice_ to visit home and be able to obtain decent apparel, from seamstresses who aren't near-sighted and possess more than just thumbs upon their hands... why, just about every other nation I've visited seems to dress their womenfolk in the sort of rags I wouldn't throw to a kitchen scut! Have you seen what _Andoran_ women wear? Coal sacks that have had holes cut in them for their arms and heads, presumably! Well, Mayeners aren't _too_ bad for fashion, I suppose, they seem to know a little of such arts... a very little..."

Ranim put his hand over his mouth and made a tolerably loud yawning sound.

Arachnae chuckled. Ymilla did not, regarding Ranim with disfavour. "You were right, you know, grandmama," she cooed, spitefully, "he _does_ need feeding-up... or is the idea that your boy-assassin should be able to squeeze under locked doors and down chimneys, so that he can slay his victims in bed?"

Arachnae shook her head, smiling. "That would have been the _Gholam's_ job, dear..." she scowled momentarily, before resuming her smile, "well, we shall just have to see to it that young Ranim cleans his plate!" She glanced drolly at her young apprentice. "Won't we, sweetheart?"

Ymilla smirked, and eyed Ranim sidelong. "Indeed, though he's a pretty enough lad (if gloomy and grim) for all that he's thin as a rake!" Ranim frowned.

Arachnae chortled. "Oh, but you _are_ a pert girl! Isn't she, Ranim-dear?"

"If you say so, Dread Mistress." Ranim smiled coldly. "And I am glad that your 'prentice was able to Heal you of the wound... to a limited extent, at least..." Ymilla frowned. Her ability for Healing was not much to speak of... when she channelled, she was more inclined toward _hurting_... Ranim shrugged. "But I suppose that she may prove of use in other areas... with regard to what you were saying earlier, Mistress... does she perhaps know how to bake pies?"

Ymilla scowled. "I'll bake _you_ in a pie, you thieving Tinker!" she hissed.

Ranim touched the hilt of his blade. "_Try_," he suggested.

Arachnae clapped her hands together impatiently. "That's _more_ than enough fighting," she declared, "it is my fault, I suppose, I really shouldn't encourage you... but if you won't keep a civil tongue in your pretty heads, then I shall sew you both up in a sack and toss the pair of you into the sea!"

Ranim removed his fingers from the hilt with a marked reluctance. Ymilla gave him a last poisonous stare, before moving on to more germane subjects;

"As I was saying, I just arrived, grandmama, and came right to where you told me I should in the dream. Our ship is moored in a cove a league to the south..."

"Well, it had best stay there for the time being, given what I have in mind." The Dread Mistress sounded pensive, Ranim thought. He had long-admired her ability to swiftly form new plans from the ashes of old... she had turned disaster into triumph on more than one occasion. His Mistress frowned. "And was there any sign of those horrid Saldaeans poking their noses about, the ones who chased me out of my nice comfortable Inn in Seleisin?"

Ymilla shook her elegantly coiffured head, eyes wide. "Oh no, grandmama, there aren't _that_ many of them in any case and besides, the main force is at least two day's ride away. They are busy hunting down those Fists you left as a rearguard, sticking them with their lances, and so forth..." She nodded toward the tethered gelding. "See that hairy thing, tied to the saddle? It's a Trolloc-scalp, apparently... _yeuch!_ I would have thrown the nasty thing into the bushes, but I just couldn't bring myself to even touch it!" She shuddered extravagantly. "Anyway, the point is that you needn't fuss about those uncouth Saldaeans just yet, grandmama, they won't get here for simply ages."

Ranim looked sceptical, whilst Arachnae raised her greying eyebrows. "And how came you to know so much of the dispositions of the enemy, my pretty?"

Ymilla smiled coquettishly. "Oh... I made enquiries..."

* * *

><p><em>Compulsion really was such a <em>useful_ tool... one of the many her Mistress had taught to her. Though Ymilla had oft employed a primitive variation of it as a girl, to sway some fellow or other to her way of thinking... before she realised that what she was doing was actually Channelling the One Power and had been sent forthwith to the accursed White Tower... and what a debacle _that_ had turned out to be! But dear old Arachnae had taught her to refine and control it. Compulsion always worked better on men, for some reason. As did seduction, in Ymilla's not-altogether limited experience. It was just taking a natural skill of Domani women that logical step further... though the object of one's attentions did not always survive the experience, of course. But then, there was that saying concerning omelettes and eggs, after all... _

_When the Saldaean soldier (one of their scouts, apparently) had finished telling Ymilla everything that she had wanted to know about the dispositions of the enemy, as well as one or two things about himself that she would rather _not_ have known, she reached out to touch his shoulder, sliding her hand up to deliver a tender, kneading caress to the side of his thickly-muscled neck. The scout smiled at her foolishly, a smile that Ymilla returned in sultry style whilst she embraced the Source and wove a particularly nasty weave. Not something that the Mistress had taught her, this time, but a web that she had spied in the stables as a novice, when a Red Ajah Sister had used it to put her ailing horse out of its misery. _

"_Die," Ymilla said, sweetly. _

_The unfortunate scout complied – well, he had but little choice in the matter – crumpling to the grass without making a sound. Ymilla looked down on him... her slender height meant that she had already been doing so physically (as well as figuratively) in any case. She prodded his corpse with the toe of her velvet slipper, just to be sure. "Odious fellow," she muttered. And from right behind her, a bird squawked loudly; _

"_Squaaa!"_

_Ymilla jumped, and turned with an angry oath upon her full lips, her arched brows drawing down. The dark, shaven-skulled Sea Folk renegade grinned, revealing several shining gold teeth. He was squat and heavily muscled, moved with an odd, swaying gait as he stepped soundlessly out from the trees on bare feet. Behind him, the land fell away to a steep, sheltered cove, containing a rakish, two-masted ship at anchor. Baggy trews of crimson silk and an ebon sash comprised his sole garments and he held a wicked-looking axe with a curved blade loosely in one tattooed hand. Scored into the web between thumb and fore-finger; the sigil of an Atha'an Miere Clan that had supposedly been destroyed by the rest of the Sea Folk a thousand years previously, according to the Dread Mistress. This was not his only tattoo; a virulent design in blue ink covered most of his broad chest, a bulbous sea-creature with fierce yellow eyes, eight snaking tentacles etched into the dusky skin of his torso. _

_Ymilla was more than familiar with the octopus, considered a delicacy in the city of her birth, though this blue variety was unknown to her and looked rather poisonous... but she had had to _ask_ concerning the irritating, brightly-plumed bird with the hooked beak that occupied one of those heavy shoulders. It was called a '_pirot_' or a '_parit_' or something like that, apparently... he had acquired it in Shara, perhaps, or somewhere even further away than that. The creature cocked its head to one side, uttering another loud squawk. _

_Ymilla scowled, hands moving to her curvaceous hips. "Burn-you, Duadh!" she hissed, "_must_ you always carry that filthy bird around with you?"_

_Duadh's gold teeth flashed with reflected sunlight as he continued to grin with his customary insolence, his near-black eyes drifting over Ymilla's lush form, tightly-sheathed in thin silk. When he answered, he did so in an odd, thick accent;_

"_Oh, but I must. He goes where I do, Windfinder..."_

"_Stop calling me that!"_

_Duadh continued to grin as he poked a thick finger against the bird occupying his shoulder, which responded with further squawking, tightening its claws. "See? He will not consent to let go..." _

_The claws digging into his bare skin looked rather sharp, but Duadh did not appear to mind. Ymilla had seen him take wounds that would have left most men screaming in agony, with an equanimity that verged on the ridiculous. She had grudgingly Healed him of some of those hurts, to the best of her ability, which as his many scars suggested, was negligible – she was better at harming with the Power than healing. Much better. _

_Duadh's eyes moved to the scout Ymilla had disposed of whilst he idly stroked the vile bird's plumage, that wicked axe still dangling loosely from his other hand. If he was curious about the dead man, he gave no indication. _

"_What are you doing here, Duadh?" Ymilla demanded impatiently, when it became apparent that he had no intention of explaining himself, "you were to remain on board the ship. I don't trust that fellow..." The Sea Folk Friend of the Dark they had made contact with in Bandar Eban had proved troublesome and objectionable, but had eventually ordered his ships to sea, if with a marked reluctance. _

_"I did not trust that son of the sands either," Duadh responded equably, "and sure enough, he gave the order to raise sail after you went ashore, so I drowned him in the salt, as is only proper. I am Sail Master now." Duadh's grin widened – there was little in life that put him in a better mood than a successful mutiny! Ymilla had noted this, in the course of their association... though she did not wish to dwell on the sort of low and sordid things that put him in a better mood even than _that_... Duadh drew himself up a little, his voice deepening; _

"_There will be no more craven talk of weighing anchor. My people await your return with the Dread Lady, with She who Calls the Gales. Duadh din Retif Blue Ring gives you his word and his bond! The Bargain was made, and by the Siren's tail, the Children of Storms stand ready to serve at her pleasure!"_

_"Most impressive, Duadh." Ymilla raised her eyebrows slightly, pouting lips forming a moue. "Tail?" Duadh did not choose to respond to this. "I thought it was 'teats...' that you were supposed to say; 'by the Siren's t-' "_

_"Oh, that you are, Windfinder!" Duadh shrugged, angering his bird, managing to somehow leer at her whilst he grinned insolently also. "'Twas an attempt at... delicacy."_

"_Delicate? _You?_ That'll be the bloody day!" Ymilla rolled her eyes extravagantly. "Though to be fair, you do have a flair for the dramatic, Duadh. All that sailorish stuff about sirens and storms and whatnot... most entertaining. Should you grow weary of your trade as a corsair, mayhap a Gleeman's cloak might better suit you? Well, I suppose it would if you weren't quite so frightful..."_

_Duadh nodded thoughtfully. "I met a Gleeman once, who said much the same things to me... he was a good fellow, with a fund of amusing tales, but he cheated me at dice so I drowned him." _

"_What a delightfully charming story. Ahh, my head! Why is it that whenever I spend any amount of time talking to you, Duadh, I find myself rapidly losing my grip upon what passes for reality?" Ymilla rubbed briskly at her temples, composing herself. "So... that Sea Folk fool is floating upon the tide and you are now captain-"_

"_Sail Master."_

"_Squaaa!"_

"_Uh! Whatever it is called... you are now sailing-master of the boat or ship or whichever it is... did you disobey and follow simply to tell me that? Could it not have waited?"_

_Duadh shook his head somewhat impatiently, causing his brightly-feathered bird to squawk in protest. It pecked at an ear, which contained so many thin gold rings as to practically occlude the sight of the flesh they pierced. Duadh ignored the bird, gesturing at the dead Saldaean scout with his wicked-bladed axe. "I saw this Shorebound horse-rider, up on the cliffs." Duadh frowned slightly, before resuming his grin. "I had planned to take him myself, and give him to the salt..." he added, with a vague note of disappointment. _

_Ymilla shuddered theatrically, her tones conveying a deal in the way of exasperation. "Really, Duadh! You _do_ have something of an obsession with drowning people in the sea, do you not?"_

_Duadh did not trouble to respond to this allegation, just continued to grin. Ymilla often got the impression that it was his habitual expression, and that anything that was not a disconcerting, disturbing baring of the teeth, was merely a temporary facial aberration. She had her doubts about the fellow's sanity, to be honest, his people were a rather inbred bunch, on the whole, they were all a bit odd... but he was at least _reliable_, and he was good at what he did... very good, in fact... _

_Ymilla sighed; "well, he is of no concern now, though I am sorry to have disappointed you. If I see any more soldiers then I shall certainly send them your way. Now, return to the ship, Duadh, I shall not be overlong about my task, and-"_

_"Squaaa!"_

_"_And_ take that dratted bird with you, before I harvest its plumes for a hat!"_

_The squat Sea Folk renegade placed a tattooed hand over his heart and bowed slightly, the virulent blue tentacles inked into his abdomen writhing with the movement. "Aye-aye. By the Father of Storm's beard, it shall be done as you say."_

_"Stormfather!" his bird squawked, "squaaa! Stormfather!"_

_Ymilla scowled at the creature. Its ability to mimic voices had come as something of a shock to her, that first time... "You are a bloody fool to teach it such words," she muttered, whilst reaching for the bridle of the scout's horse, "it nearly got us _killed_ in that tavern in Mayene..." _

_Duadh allowed his grin to fade a little, the nearest he ever came to expressing the slightest contrition, but gave his vile bird an affectionate scratch anyway. It cocked its head and nibbled at his fingers with its vicious beak. "I do not teach," Duadh pointed-out, reasonably. "Clever bird. He listens to me, teaches himself."_

_"Filthy feathered freak," Ymilla growled under her breath, as she scrambled awkwardly into the saddle, having to hike-up her narrow skirts to well above the knees. Duadh's onyx eyes lingered on her long legs, sheathed in even thinner silk than that which tightly covered the rest of her. _

_The bird swivelled its head to regard Ymilla with a beady eye. "Pretty!" it squawked, then made a lewd, whistling noise. "Squaaa! Pretty lady!"_

* * *

><p>Arachnae chuckled. "That silly bird <em>is<em> an insolent creature... much like its master!" She shrugged her bony old shoulders. "But the Storm Children have proved their worth in the past, for all that they bargain hard for their services, as though they imagine that they are _not_ outcast from the Sea Folk Clans and are yet trading in silk, rather than murder and pillage! Still, for all his oddities, young Duadh always brings me any interesting items that he finds on his travels, lost _ter'angreal_ from places far away across the seas, which is _most_ thoughtful of him... added to which, I think me that I have perhaps placed too much reliance in these useless Shadowspawn to further my ends, it could be time to try a different tack, to use an aptly nautical expression... Duadh and his people may prove more efficacious... so, we shall just have to endure his eccentricities. _And_ his bird! For the time being, at least..."

Arachnae Kirikil was currently occupying a rather uncomfortable log. Ranim had started a fire over which a kettle was slowly simmering, and was preparing her a nice cup of blueberry tea, he was _such_ a considerate boy... Ymilla had elected to remain standing, since she had no wish to besmirch her fine new gown with bark-stains, which was perfectly understandable.

Arachnae was very much looking forward to returning to relative civilisation, the damp was affecting her rheumatism... she was far too _old_ for this sort of thing! The deserted camp-site served only to remind her of her failure... and failure, even for one of her station and power, could be fatal. Arachnae sighed. She was as much thinking aloud as communicating to her two most trusted minions, and now her thoughts took a darker turn, a note of dejection entering her quavering old voice;

"Ah, me. All in all, not a _good_ day... rather disappointing, most things considered... a little like that unfortunate business in Haddon Mirk, now that I think of it... all my lovely _ter'angreal_ down at the bottom of the mire, my poor 'prentice Suvana butchered by those horrid Warders whilst that chit of a girl and her strumpet friend went skipping back to their filthy White Tower, as merry as schoolgirls..."

It was not a complete disaster, of course, not all of the Trollocs had been drowned or otherwise destroyed, a few stragglers down to the beach had still been in evidence, a couple of Fist's worth, though their Myrddraal were not, having deserted the cause... she was going to have _words_ with those Halfmen, when she could get around to it... In any case, Arachnae had sent the remaining Shadowspawn east, toward the Saldaeans. They had seemed glad enough to move in a direction that took them away from the feared and hated ocean, in any case. Without a Myrddraal to remind them of their duty, the Trollocs would doubtless disobey orders and simply attempt to flee back to the Blight, but in so doing would add to the confusion and further delay the arrival of those fearsome lancers. By which time, she would be long gone, with any luck. But there was something that needed attending to first...

_so that young snip thinks she has got clean away, does she? the accursed Dragonspawn, also, just sailing off into the sunset, happily ever after... well, we shall most certainly see about that..._

Arachnae made a frustrated, aggrieved noise in her throat, then noted that Ranim and Ymilla were watching her with a degree of caution... but also, she was touched to see, concern. They had even temporarily ceased bickering with each other in order to do so... she smiled at them and chuckled softly;

"Oh, I _am_ angry, my pretties... your old mistress is _seething!_"

"What can we do to help, Dread Mistress?" offered Ranim, "speak a name, and know that they are dead."

Ymilla was not to be outdone. "Command us, grandmama, and by the Great Lord of the Dark's breath, I swear thy will be done!"

Arachnae Kirikil's wrinkled old features firmed with resolve.

"Ah, my precious poppets, it is ever so kind of you to think of such things... to attempt the giving of cheer to a poor, disappointed old woman... but fear not, your mistress has a trick or two up her sleeve, yet. What to do, what to do?" Arachnae's eyes glazed a little for a moment, then snapped back into focus. She nodded firmly.

"Well now, I believe that I shall enjoy a nice, soothing cup of tea and perhaps indulge in a little quiet knitting until such time as I have _fully_ composed myself... and then I am going to fetch that tall blue chalice from amongst my _ter'angreal_ (the one you are always fiddling with and wondering about, young Milly) after which I am going to go up to the top of that cliff over there (and I would appreciate your arm to lean on as I do so, Ranim-dear) and then..." Arachnae smiled, her dark, gimlet eyes seeming to twinkle, though certainly not with a light that could be described as 'kindly' "...why, _then_ I am going to summon up a storm the like of which the Aryth Ocean has _never seen_."

* * *

><p><em>here ends Book II of He Sleeps Under the Hill<em>

_GB_


	5. Interlogue 2: At the First Stedding

_**Gleeman Bob writes: **sorry! bad enough that I have one interlogue when the word does not even exist in the Old Tongue, but two? also, Interlogue2 is about 13 times longer than Interlogue1, it is not even really an interlogue but more of a chapter... whereas the mercifully short Chapter 2 (which takes place between the events below) is more of an interlogue, so perhaps I should swap them around? I don't know, I will sort it all out one day I am sure, the foolish Gleeman is just making it all up as he goes along, after all... well, that is what writing sort of comes down to, in the final analysis... lying!_

_**WARNING! **Interlogue2 contains slightly more adult themes than are usually seen in HSUtH, such as sex... and cannibalism... but mostly sex. I have tried to describe it all as tastefully as possible, like the Master Gleeman always did, but if you are offended by any of it then you should probably throw some rotten turnips at the gratuitous Gleeman..._

_this is just my take on the way certain things might have been, over and above the cultural mores of the Age of Legends; such as what the Companions who Broke the World were like, the manner in which the modern-day Ajah first began to form and how the Ogier were given a gift by the male Aes Sedai, a poisoned chalice... not to mention the origins of a certain fraternity of patch-cloaked, work-shy, self-important rural entertainers... the reader is of course welcome to disagree with any or all of it! _

_**UPCOMING HSUtH:** I had hoped to get this story wound-up before the New Year but a major writing commitment means that I cannot post Book III until 2013... it might be interesting to read aMoL first anyway... but I will do my best to get a 'Christmas Mystery' short story from before the Box posted in time for the holidays, it will feature young Tro trying to solve a murder... like Sherlock Holmes, only without the big pipe... though they both play the fiddle... or maybe it is a violin? what is the difference, anyway? hmm..._

_Interlogue2 was originally just a conversation between Father and his old friend Gwilim Sedai while they checked-out these new 'Way' things he had grown, but it all got out of hand as other characters loudly demanded to have their tales told too... especially Kiam..._

_...uh-oh, I am talking about my characters (some of whose names I did not have to make up as I swiped them from the World of WoT, all credit to RJ) as though they are real and I can hear their voices in my head! the Dark One's Taint is strong indeed, I'd better leave that saidin alone and go back into the stedding now..._

_Walk in the Light!_

* * *

><p><strong>Interlogue 2 * <strong>_**At the First **__**Stedding**_

**Part I: Genius **

Chaime Kufer's first impression of the Apprentice was that he was very strangely dressed for a 'prentice. But then, given who his Master was, he _would _be. The second, once the young man was close enough to start speaking to him, was that he had clearly begun to feel the effects of the Dark One's Taint... but since they were currently standing in a place where no _Aes Sedai_, male or female, could touch or even sense the True Source, this did not concern him nearly so much as it might otherwise have.

Still... Chaime kept a close eye on the Apprentice as they made their way along the path through the tall alders, the Great Trees looming up ahead. The young man wore grey, web-cloth coveralls tucked into crimson knee-boots and had a garish harlequin-coat slung over his shoulders, decorated with myriad bright diagonals, mauves and fuscias and violets, as well as colours that he could not put a name to, the different hues clashing against each other jarringly... rather than the plain grey robes of the solemn young men who filed after Chaime, his own Apprentices. The ones that were left. In the week since they departed the _Collam Doon_, he had lost two already.

The loudly-garbed Apprentice was somewhat wild-eyed as he led them through the _stedding_, speaking rapidly and waving his arms for emphasis with unnecessary vigour. Sad-eyed Ogier soldiers standing sentry amongst the trees watched them pass, their tufted ears drooping against the sides of their helmets. Their guide – who followed-on since the excitable 'prentice had seen to it that he was not being required to guide – nodded to the guards and called out a booming greeting.

The youthful Treebrother wearing the _cadin'gai_ of the Alantin Guardians had been given the task of leading them to the Great Stump, but did not seem to mind that the Apprentice had superseded his role. He had been surprised and then pleased when Chaime addressed him in fluent Ogier. Well, not _that_ fluent, but passable... the young _Alantin ti Avende_ had clearly never met a human who had been able to learn – much less _speak_ – his incredibly convoluted tongue, but then, Chaime was no ordinary human. He had not been merely 'human' for a very long time. He was _Aes Sedai_, and the dark, tilted eyes that held such implacable certainty as they examined the _stedding _and its occupants, had seen more than seven centuries pass.

Chaime sighed. He hoped it would not take too long, to fulfil the Prophecy... he was very much looking forward to the long sleep of death. He further hoped that it would be an entirely _dreamless_ slumber... he touched the dagger-_ter'angreal _hung about his neck, an unconscious movement that he often made. He could not take _that _with him to the grave... he might as well give it to someone.

"The Master will not have been informed of your arrival, he is... elsewhere... difficult to contact..." the Apprentice was distractedly explaining, walking backwards, his feverish gaze fixed with longing on the _stedding _border diminishing behind them. "If I may ask, Chaime Sedai, what is it _like_ out there?"

Chaime regarded the young man scathingly. "What is left of the world, that little which survived the War, is currently being torn asunder by violently insane Companions and other powerful male _Aes Sedai_, with more joining their ranks each day... what do you _think _it is like?" he snapped. He had seen a lot of corpses in the last week... a refugee column that had been ripped apart... faded, week-old _saidin_ residues but no sign of the culprit. A big pyramid of severed heads, a feast for flies, carefully arranged beside the road... it must have taken some time for the Madman to build it. That had been bad... though other things he had seen had been worse.

The Apprentice looked crestfallen, but his eyes remained riveted on the border... well, if he tried to run, the soldiers would stop him. They were not just there to guard their _stedding_ from outsiders, but to protect the outside from those who had taken Sanctuary here. Though there were few enough of them left now, the male _Aes Sedai _who had come in desperation, seeking refuge... the call of _saidin _was strong, very strong. The young man was clearly feeling the powerful effects of that call.

"I would give _anything_, to touch it again, just once..." the Apprentice mumbled, still not looking where he was going, the pale blue eyes set in his thin, dark-skinned face still fixed on the outside... the place where he would feel alive again. The young man blinked, absently addressing Chaime without looking at him;

"...if he is not within the Ways themselves, the Master may be found in the vicinity of the Waygate, he does not like to stray too far from his work... after you have spoken with the Elders, Chaime Sedai, I will take you to-_yah!_" his incautious feet had strayed from the path so that he managed to trip over one of the smooth, carved logs that bordered it. They paused while the Ogier youth came forward and helped the 'prentice up, dusting him down. The wide smile that seemed to split his smooth, un-bearded face in twain, held commiseration, but gentle amusement also.

"You must watch where you step more carefully, my friend," he rumbled, "you should not move with such haste."

The Apprentice squinted up at the tall Ogier as though wondering who he was, and then nodded. "I was not so hasty once, good Haltha," he told the Ogier youth, "but that was when I thought that I might live as long as one of _your _people. This is looking less likely these days, is it not?" His smile held wistful sadness.

"The Wheel weaves as it wills, 'prentice Caal..." The Ogier patted him comfortingly on the shoulder, nearly knocking the young Apprentice over. As he staggered, he giggled loudly. Chaime's own Apprentices, assembled behind, frowned at the delay... and at the one causing it. Wary frowns, as well as impatient.

Chaime regarded the laughing youth. Clearly, the poor lad was afflicted by the Taint to some extent... he had seen many like him, who were halfway there and just needed that final touch of _saidin _to send them over the edge... in a way, they were the most dangerous of all. Apart from the quiet ones, who showed none of the signs right up until the very moment that they suddenly became entirely and irrevocably psychotic. They were the worst. Then, he thought about those final words, before the log intervened and the feet of the young Madman-in-waiting flew out from under him.

Chaime Kufer, _Aes Sedai_, scowled darkly. "What is a _way-gate?_" he demanded. He had no idea what it was... and he had never _liked_ to not know things.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Uncle."<p>

"_Argh!_ Damnation, Nephew! Where did _you_ come creeping from? My poor heart, I'm experiencing damned chest-pains... always sneaking up on me... frightened the damn life out of me, you little tyke!"

"I am extremely sorry about that, 'nuncle. But I was not trying to move _that_ quietly, it is just that you were preoccupied with whatever that is going on over there. It is very good to see you in any case, I did not think that I would ever do so again."

"Nice to see you also, though you are very _difficult_ to see... heard you were dead, but didn't believe a damned word of it... well, don't just crouch there, lurking in the bushes in your fancloth... come over here and give me a hug, boy! _Whuff!_ Not so _hard_... damn you move fast, I had forgotten... were you _this_ disturbingly muscular the last time I saw you? I think you may have cracked a rib or two..."

"Sorry, Uncle. But I didn't break any ribs, you are exaggerating as usual."

"Well, they damned-well _feel _broken. You've got a chest the size of a damn barrel, though I am still taller than you, of course. Stop pouting, I can't help being tall, my parents were _Da'shain_. Damn-me, you're not going to _keep _growing and end up as big as your Elder Brother, are you?"

"No, I am afraid not... Father said it would take a while for me to reach full maturity... and it _did!_ I am in my prime, now."

"Huh. I was in my prime a couple of hundred years ago, but trust me, it's all downhill after _that_..."

"I would expect that it is. But don't worry, Uncle, I won't be getting any bigger... or _taller_ either..."

"Stop sulking, Nephew."

"I am not!"

"You have that sulky look on your face, like when I used to beat you at _no'ri_."

"You cheated, Uncle! I went out to answer a call of nature one time and when I returned I saw you moving my pieces about!"

"I was not cheating in order to win because I did not _need _to, remember? It was boring, Nephew, I was just trying out some different mathematical combinations instead of the dull moves that _you_ kept making..."

"Well, it certainly looked like cheating to _me_... and I am _not_ sulking, I don't care about being short, since I am fast and strong and have razor-sharp claws on my hands and feet. Um... what is going on here, Uncle? It all looks a bit strange."

"Oh, it is! _Very!_ Would you like me to tell you all about it?"

"Not really, but I suppose that you are going to anyway..."

"Yes I am. Over the last few years I, the noted Gwilimin Leafwright, _Aes Sedai_ (only Servant of All to ever refuse a Third Name) as well as my few remaining Apprentices and some other fellows who had not yet gone insane at the time I recruited them, but did later, completely and utterly stark... staring... raving..."

"...Uncle?"

"Hmph? Oh... well, we have been building... or _growing_ might be more apt, I suppose... we have been growing something very interesting... rather special..."

"It does not seem so special to me, Uncle. Though the webs that Circle are spinning look different from ordinary ones, they are not Battle-weavings anyway, I don't think I've ever seen anything like _that _before..."

"Stop squinting at my Apprentices, Nephew... now you are staring at them. What is the matter, haven't you ever seen the One Power at work?"

"Not like this, but I am staring because one of your Apprentices is _female_..."

"Unusual, I know, in this day and age... she isn't really _my _Apprentice, her brother is, she sort of came here to keep an eye on him... but without dear Mitsora, we wouldn't be able to have even that limited Circle over there..."

"She is quite pretty, in a stern sort of way... looks familiar, I think I have seen her somewhere... what is that glowing green thing she is waving around?"

"Oh, it's a _ter'angreal _I made... took me ages to get it right. I call it the 'Talisman-of-Growing.' "

"You are always making up impressive names for the _ter'angreal_ you build. I remember your 'Spirit-Flask' or 'Djinn-Bottle' or whatever it was you decided on in the end..."

"_I_ remember the startled look on the Gholam's face while it was getting sucked into the device! Damn glad it worked like a charm... _honestly_, that was _quite_ a night... I thought your Father had invited me around to the old Tomb to drink some brandy and smoke some cigars and perhaps later on we might get the Fisher-King board out... but no, that would have been far too normal and pleasant for Chaime _bloody_ Kufer! What does your Father do when I arrive? He calmly tells me that one of his spies has informed him there's a damned Gholam coming to assassinate him that very evening and we should hide behind the sofa and _wait_ for it! I would have strangled him, but my hands were shaking too much from the sheer terror of it all!"

"Yes, Father can be very irritating sometimes, with his little surprises... and he would never let me _fight_ his Gholam either, didn't want it damaged, though it looked like a girl so I might not have hit or kicked or sliced it so much as the other one, which _didn't _look like a girl... but what are you _doing_, Uncle, with all of these strange webs? I could sense them from leagues off, like a Power Beacon... but to what end? _Is_ there one? _Growing things?_ You haven't gone mad, have you? I mean, madder?"

"From the Taint? No, not yet, I've staved it off so far. One of my gifts from the _Eelfinn _provides a sort of protection, but I can't channel while I'm wearing it... it's far too dangerous to... _hoy!_ What do you mean; _madder?_"

"_Oww!_ Don't pinch my ear like that! I'm not a kit anymore!"

"You're a cheeky little beggar. But I take your point, Nephew, however rudely expressed... perhaps _that_ is why your Father still had most of his marbles when last I saw him... we were both already fairly insane _before_ the Backlash, so perhaps it has avoided us to a greater extent than with all of those lucid, rational _Aes Sedai_ who became gibbering maniacs in the space of a few chimes and immediately set to work smiting and blighting the world into little tiny pieces..."

"Uncle..."

"It could be that the one form of madness cancels out the other? Is it akin to what dear old Chaime always says about fighting fire with _more_ fire? Interesting..."

"_Uncle!_"

"_What?_ And don't shout."

"I cannot stay long, Father has summoned me to come in haste and there is some way yet to go... I do not have time for-"

"You'll stay for dinner and a little music after, surely?"

"Oh... alright... I smelled some deer over there, I will go and catch you one..."

"Venison! A _stedding _is all very well, but one gets tired of vegetables and fruit after the first twenty years... Ogier don't tend to go hunting, they don't like to kill things... though they keep bees and make a damned decent mead, so it's not _all_ bad..."

"I'll pick you out a nice fat buck. But first... I _must _know! Apart from anything else, I am quite worried about your state of mind, Uncle. What in the Wheel are you _doing _here?"

"We are growing the Ways, of course."

"What are the ways?"

"It has a capital 'W.' It is the name which I have given to the semi-organic paths that I have caused to twine hither and yon through a finite spatial grid-formation emplaced within an infinite artificially-created lesser void which exists in null-time, so that... Nephew, you are blinking at me as though you do not understand my meaning."

"Of course I _don't_, I'm a Shieldman, not a Scientist!"

"You make a fair point. Though it is a shame, you have a good enough mind and a flair for languages, you are fully capable of retaining facts and drawing conclusions... and yet you run around killing Shadowmen and Gholams with your beastly claws, instead of devoting yourself to more worthwhile pursuits..."

"You say that as though I was ever given a _choice_, Uncle."

"Another fair point, Nephew, an even fairer one, perhaps. I sympathise. And empathise, for I would have been content to sing the seeds and serve your Father for my whole life, unless I had a bridal-wreath thrown at my toes and was crazy enough to pick the damn thing up and went off to serve my wife's Mistress instead... I was quite happy with my lot... if that unfortunate manifestation hadn't occurred, had I not begun to draw _saidin _and to accidentally set things aflame as a young man, then I would have lived and died _Da'shain Aiel_, in service to the Master... but I was packed off to the Academy instead, and had to forget all about the Leaf Way and try to learn how to be something else. How to be _Aes Sedai_, when all I really knew was how to _serve _them. And _I_ do not recall being given a choice, either."

"Fate can be cruel, Uncle."

"Like an ill-fitting pair of new boots that pinch your toes, Nephew. Well, we are men, so we must suck it up and try not to cry in public and force ourselves to pretend that the pain of existence does not bother us quite so much as it does."

"Yes we must. So... these 'way' things..?"

"I have grown them. Damned proud of them, too."

"But _why _did you grow them, Uncle? Is it because you are insane?"

"I shall not dignify your asinine query with a response. And stop looking at me like that! It is for the _Alantin ti Avende_, if you must know, you overly curious creature. A gift that may prove useful."

"That is nice of you, to give them a gift... I suppose..."

"Well, they have given us Sanctuary after all... we owe them some recompense... '_a hound for a swine or a swine for a_-' "

"Not you _too_, Uncle! Father is _always_ spouting nonsense in the vulgar Low Chant, stupid old proverbs about cows and honey and things... it's _stupid_..."

"How rude! Have you become less mannerly since last we spoke? No, I recall that your manners were _always_ appalling, young Tro."

"Huh. No-one's called me _that_ in a long time... and it was always _you _who had the really bad mann-_oww!_ Alright, I'll shut-up, just leave my damn ears alone!"

"Interrupt again, foolish child, and I shall pinch your damn ears until they fall right off. _As I was saying _prior to your rude remark, it is only fair to give the Ogier a present, a boon in return for the invitation extended to those of us who accepted their offer of Sanctuary... a fascinating project, all things considered... there were some other chaps involved in the earlier stages, but they all went damn peculiar, so we had to sever them... damned shame, really. Why are you grinning like that?"

"Oh, I was just remembering that it was _you _who taught me to say '_damn!_' "

"I never!"

"_Yes you did_, and if old Ledrin hadn't been _Da'shain_, then he might even have been _annoyed _with you about it, but because he was Ledrin he never said anything... he always thought you were a bad influence though, I could tell."

"You may have a point there, I remember that dear old Ledrin (who I am distantly related to, by the way, though it would be in extremely poor taste for either of us to acknowledge the connection) always seemed very eager about fetching my coat and showing me to the door, at the end of one of my visits..."

"This one time I overheard him telling another _Aiel_ that he thought your harlequin-coats were no fit apparel for an _Aes Sedai_... it was the closest I ever heard Ledrin come to actually being _rude_ about someone! An _Aes Sedai _someone, no less! The other _Da'shain_ looked a bit shocked and Ledrin blushed..."

"Shocking stuff indeed. Ah, but it is nice to remember old times, back before we had the grave misfortune to _win _the damned War and find out what an enormously poor loser the Dark One is. Life was easier back then, in a horrific and appalling sort of way, with just the Shadow to fight... now, the enemy is everywhere and nowhere at once... which is why I mean to see to it that the good Ogier shall no longer have to fear journeying between their _stedding_, over dangerous roads aswarm with Madmen and Mesaana's Children and Shadow-sworn renegades..."

"But Uncle, why do they journey at all, in these unquiet times?"

"The Treebrothers are leery of discussing their cultural peculiarities, but as far as I can tell, communication between the various _stedding _seems to largely revolve around the arrangement of forced marriages... but that is just my jaundiced, human opinion, and that of a confirmed bachelor to-boot, so should perhaps be discounted. The Ogier men seem quite content with their lot, on the whole. But then, husbands _always _seem to give that appearance, and know better than to do otherwise, since they have a _wife_ to govern their behaviour and actions for them, the lucky fellows!"

"Why are you shuddering like that, Uncle? Are you cold?"

"I was just imagining life as a married man... picking up a wreath with trembling hands... thank the Creator I never lost my sanity to quite _that_ extent!"

"You sound like Middle Brother at his wedding, Uncle."

"Yes I remember, your Brother looked much paler than he usually did... at one point, he even appeared to be sweating... and just before the blessing, he sort of faded into that patch of sunlight. I thought Taw had come to his senses and run away (I was secretly cheering him on) but then he came right back again, the damned fool..."

"Taw had to go and be sick, somewhere else where it wouldn't melt through the floor. Personally, I think it would be very nice to get married one day, though I don't suppose I ever will. Not if Father is planning what I _think_ he's planning..."

"Oh, he is always planning something, your Father."

"I believe that this time he is planning something involving stasis-boxes..?"

"I found one for him, but he sneered at it and sent it back."

"I also heard a rumour that he had been to visit the Snakes..?"

"The _Aelfinn?_ That he did. You keep your pointy ears to the ground. Anyway, who do you think sent him the Doorway?"

"I wish you had not. I don't trust the Snakes."

"Well, I don't trust the Foxes. They tricked me... but I tricked them back, so I think we came out even. No... no we didn't, that is just the bravado talking... _they_ won. They always _bloody _win. You know Chaime went to see the _Eelfinn _too, years ago, back before you were born? Your Father is _definitely _insaner than me."

"_Insaner_ isn't even a real word and I think that you are both equally unhinged... but I have not spoken with Father for a few years, so we shall see. Hmm... that Circle or whatever it is, they seem to have ceased their spinning now... oh, I did not see before, the light was too bright, there is a stone thing with leaves and vines carved all over it... it has stopped glowing, now... what is it?"

"It is a Waygate, of course. The first of many. We've been using portals to go back and forth to the Guiding, but this is an attempt at something more permanent."

"I don't understand, Uncle... if this is so important to you, why are you not part of the Circle? You are stronger in the Power than those Apprentices, though they are all of them very strong..."

"I am standing over here _just in case_, Nephew."

"Just in case of what?"

"Just in case something goes horribly wrong again, of course... if a vortex or a temporal event starts forming, I should be able to use this _sa'angreal _to save my 'prentices from being dragged into the... where are you going? Come back here, cowardly-cat! It is perfectly safe... we almost definitely won't get sucked into the void like those other poor fellows did!"

"I don't really like being that close to this sort of thing..."

"Come down from that tree right now!"

"_Shan't_. I prefer it up here... oh! _Birds_..."

"Leave them alone! Descend, Shieldman, your _Aes Sedai _commands it!"

"Oh... alright then... though it is not fair of you to pull rank..."

"Come, Nephew, let me show you the Waygate."

"I would rather not go too near it if you don't m-_oww!_ Alright, I'm _coming_, let go of my _k'jasic_ ear, Uncle! You do realise that I only put up with this sort of bullying behaviour because you are _Aes Sedai_ and because you taught me how to play the fiddle and _no'ri _and say; '_damn!_' Otherwise, I would probably just rip your heart out of your chest and-_oww!_ _Let go, 'nuncle!_"

"Hmm? Did you say something, Nephew? Why are you clutching at your tufty ear and scowling?"

"Because _you _are _unduly violent _for someone supposedly raised in the Way of the Leaf..."

"That was a long time ago... and I am gentle as a maiden with most, but it's different with family. Taw complained about the ear-pulling too, but like I used to tell him, loving discipline is often necessary in the raising of a well-behaved child."

"Huh. Middle-Bro only put up with it because he was so amazed that you even _dared_ do it... he always told me that Uncle Gwili was the only person he ever met crazy enough to flick him on the ear without being terrified of the consequences!"

"Sarcastic boy... miss him though... may he rest in the Palm."

"A nice idea, if we Lightborn even have souls, which most probably we do not... but I think that the Creator might be worried about getting His fingers bitten..."

"_Blasphemy!_ I should wash your mouth out with soap, Nephew..."

"I was only quoting Middle Brother. He was often sacrilegious."

"That he was. Well anyway, here we are. My lovely, shiny new Waygate. Don't the leaves look nice? Very realistic. Well done, my faithful 'prentices, pat yourselves on the backs... smoke if you got 'em... oh, this is my Nephew, by the way. Don't worry, he doesn't bite."

"I do sometimes."

"Well, don't bite my Apprentices, even if you're hungry, there's only those three left and I need them all. Though most of the hard work is done now, planting the nascent Ways, the first Islands... using the Talisman to create access points... seeding the gates... well, that is relatively simple... though the _first _Talisman (which was not constructed by _me_, incidentally) did not function as planned and all thirteen _Aes Sedai_ got swallowed by the damned vortex... poor fellows, wonder what happened to them? Hope it was _quick_, anyway..."

"Reassuring. Is it a good idea to touch it like that, Uncle?"

"I'm wearing my gloves, just like you are, Nephew. Now, let's _carefully_ pull out this _chora-_leaf _here _and pop it back in down _here _and... _there_. Excellent."

* * *

><p>Even Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, who had walked abroad in the world for seven-hundred and seventy-seven years, was impressed by the dignity and serenity of the ancient Elders. He was more ancient than any of they, of course, but did not think that even if he lived to be a thousand (a frightening thought) that he would achieve that same level of calm wisdom and deep understanding which he saw in the seven pairs of large eyes that examined him closely.<p>

"_Honour to Gardeners and tenders of forest... Aes Sedai not wish disturb Great Stump just here for to see friend_," he told them at some length in their own language, feeling rather winded afterwards, since the words all took far too long to say and it was necessary to draw a deep breath before each of the more complex terms he employed. Especially 'disturb' which carried connotations of strong winds breaking healthy branches and disarranging carefully-ordered shrubs...

The Ogier woman in the centre rose. The Senior Elder, her sung-wood chair more ornate than the others set to either side. She was certainly the most impressive. It was hard to see what material her long robe was spun from, given the profusion of delicate vines and blossoms embroidered lovingly over the entirety of the garment. Her face was deeply lined, the tufts of her ears and eyebrows very pale and silky, the large eyes above her broad snout holding great knowledge, greater patience. Her solemnity vanished as her face split in a delighted smile, her ears twitching.

"You honour us greatly, _Aes Sedai_," she declared, her voice a high rumble of distant thunder, "no human, not even a Servant of the Hall, has ever addressed the Stump in our own tongue." Chaime could not help but note that she used the High Chant to reply, perhaps something of a hint that he might feel free to cease mangling her extremely complicated language, having now at least made the effort... so he responded in the language of humans and not Ogier, after another smooth bow.

"I have not had the pleasure of speaking with Elders before. Well, I _have_, but it was a long time ago, and my use of your speech then even poorer than it is now."

"You are being overly modest, _Aes Sedai_. You look a little red in the face, please do not stand on ceremony. Haltha, bring a chair for the _Aes Sedai! _I am impressed. Our words were never meant for the tongues of humans, and yet..."

"I persevered, Honoured Elder. I was told that your speech was almost impossible to learn... but I have spent much of my life proving that _almost _impossible is not the same thing as _impossible_." Chaime felt that this might be a somewhat arrogant declaration to make... but the senior Elder simply nodded, thoughtfully.

The Ogier youth brought the _Aes Sedai _the smallest sung-wood chair he could find at short notice, though Chaime's sandalled feet still dangled above the ground when he sat in it, and they spoke of various matters for a while, hedging around his reasons for being there with his Apprentices, as the Treebrothers were very mannerly and would not just come right out and _ask _him. Not immediately, at least. Ogier maidens carried refreshments up to the immense stump of one of the Great Trees, polished smooth as glass, and while they sipped mead from sung-wood goblets they discussed the state of the world... the fate of the Wheel... but these were grim topics and were soon abandoned with relief.

"You are here for the Sanctuary, _Aes Sedai?_" a male Elder with impressively long eyebrows and moustaches finally asked, his voice a deep, bass grumble, and the other Elders fell expectantly silent.

"It is yours, should you wish it." The Senior Elder sighed, her ears drooping a little. "Many came, in the first days of this Breaking, and we sheltered them all, even after the Tamyrlin requested that we cease taking them in... but they are nearly all gone now, those male _Aes Sedai_. It has been long since Sanctuary was sought here."

Chaime glanced at 'prentice Caal, who was loitering beside the stump, speaking to Jojin, though his oldest Apprentice clearly did not wish him to and was eyeing the eccentric youth cautiously. The others kept their distance. What had happened with Medric and Haan was probably still foremost in their minds... well, they were safe here, for the time being. Though nowhere was really safe anymore, of course. With the world ending all around them, safety was an illusion, a bad joke.

Chaime had seen several male _Aes Sedai _on his way to the stump, clothed in a profusion of old-fashioned robes and shabby garments... two had been busy, wearing large, netted hats, tending to a row of bee-hives, but most had been solitary, aimlessly wandering or standing, staring into space... some had been talking to themselves.

"There are but few of your Brothers left here, _Aes Sedai_," the male Elder told him, "most departed years ago, of their own volition, while they were yet sound of mind... our soldiers have standing orders to keep within these borders only those who have evidently lost their sanity. They who went... we could not hold them against their will, we had not the right, for all that we knew they would succumb to the Taint, that they would burn and destroy and kill before they died. That they would join the others, who were already Breaking the World." He shook his head, dejected.

"Some took their own lives rather than do so," added a female Elder, with great sadness, "there are many who lie beneath the marker-stones."

"Sanctuary here is yours if you wish it, and for your 'prentices also." The Senior Elder's features were firm, even grim. Her large-eyed gaze steady. There was no Tamyrlin to refuse anymore, but Chaime knew that even if every one of his Sisters who yet survived were to present themselves at the border of this _stedding _and demand that the hated Defector be handed over to them, they would still be denied. Sanctuary was Sanctuary, after all. Ogier did not deal in empty promises.

Chaime declined the offer. "My thanks, but as I fumblingly attempted to explain in your own language, I did not come for the Sanctuary. My duties take me elsewhere, though I will extend your invitation to my Apprentices. Should any wish to remain here, I will permit it." He knew that none of them would. They _believed_... believed in the Process, to cleanse _saidin_ of the Taint. A doomed effort. They would follow the Master to the ends of the world... and they might have to. This did not make him feel any better for allowing them to have _hope_... but then, it was _all_ they had. Telling them the truth would be crueller than encouraging them to think that they had a future that might not involve psychosis, physical decay and death.

"Then why came you here, _Aes Sedai_, if not for the gift of Sanctuary?"

"My Son was at this _stedding_ a week ago, and informed my Apprentices that he had encountered an acquaintance of mine, an old friend, one Gwilim Sedai..."

"He is known to us."

"I decided to pay this friend a visit, since I have not seen him for many years. Though I hope in so doing that I have not disturbed the peace of this _stedding?_"

"Indeed not, _Aes Sedai_, your presence honours us. As do the efforts of your friend, who does us some great service at this time..." the senior Elder did not sound entirely certain of this, and some of the other Elders looked doubtful... one raised a soft objection and she addressed them at length in her own tongue.

Chaime listened carefully... she seemed to be trying to reassure them, and he thought he heard an expression that meant something along the lines of 'useful' but could not be quite sure. You never could, when it came to conversational Ogier, and she seemed to be using a more advanced dialect than the basic one he had been slowly attempting to master for the last three-hundred years.

The Senior Elder turned back to him. "Forgive me. Young Haltha will show you the way..." The Ogier youth who had met them at the borders of the _stedding _bowed, then smiled as 'prentice Caal pushed his way forward to stand beside him. Another Apprentice had appeared, one of his fellows presumably, tall and pale, with dark spikes of hair hanging down over his eyes, wearing a pure white spider-silk shirt and black satin breeches tucked into pale calf-boots. The diagonals on _his _leather coat were hued in an array of darker shades, purple and magenta and umber, other such deep colours, set in a random pattern.

The tall Apprentice did not seem to be interested in what was going on, but was leaning against the stump, slowly tuning a sung-wood lute, occasionally twanging a string and twisting a peg. His handsome features were blank, lifeless. Chaime's own Apprentices were eying the newcomer cautiously. He looked as though he might be one of the dangerous, quiet ones... whereas the 'prentice they had first encountered, was clearly one of the dangerous, loud ones...

"I will take you to the Master, Chaime Sedai," 'prentice Caal announced importantly, then blinked and turned to the tall Apprentice. "Is Gwilim Sedai without the void, Chulchun?" Chulchun continued to tune his lute. "_Chulchun?_" He looked up, dark eyes staring through spikes of hair... then curtly shook his head, before returning his attention to the lute. He twanged a string, turned a peg slowly. Apprentice Caal glared at him, then span away, bowing to Chaime. "I will show you to the Waygate, it is just beyond the border, where I may not go..." he frowned.

"This Gate is without the _stedding?_"

"Only slightly, Chaime Sedai... we had to build it... grow it... at the edge of the _stedding_, where the aura would not affect the seeding-webs... we did it last week..." 'prentice Caal uttered an alarming, high-pitched giggle, before explaining; "...I went a bit funny, so I'm not allowed out there anymore." He scowled, angrily. Jojin and the other Apprentices moved further away from him. Chulchun twanged a string loudly.

Chaime turned to the Senior Elder. "_My friend... what doing has been he?_" he enquired, in his poor Ogier.

The ancient Elder smiled. "You will see. It is not for me to say, I barely understand the manner of it. Best that you look for yourself, _Aes Sedai_." She hesitated. "You... are the one called Chaime Kufer Mors?"

Chaime frowned. So they had known who he was, all along... he had always admired the Ogier's ability to lull you into thinking that they were merely passive and dispassionate observers, so that when they revealed that they could be quite sharp, it came as more of a surprise. "It is simply 'Chaime Kufer' now, Honoured Elder..."

The Senior Elder regarded him with perhaps a hint of amusement. "Oh? But your son was here last week, we were greatly honoured to host he who bears the Tree-name of..." she then spoke a very long Ogier title that Chaime could not possibly decipher, though he thought it might have something to do with catching or stopping something, "...a name given by those soldiers of our people who served with him against the Shadow... in any case, when it came to _your _name, _Aes Sedai_, he insisted upon using all three. Your son said that the Grand Hall of the Servants had taken your third name from you, but now that there _was _no Hall... well..."

"Yes, he said that to me, too."

"Your son told we Elders that he had been summoned by his Master and could not tarry overlong... he gave to us much useful information concerning conditions to the north... the Blight has retreated of late, but even if it is a falsehood to say that the Shadow never sleeps, as some maintain... well, it seems that it sleeps only to wake again, an ebbing and rising tide of evil..." the Senior Elder sighed "...we are too close to the Darkness, here... it may be that this _stedding _will needs be abandoned, in time."

The other Elders looked shocked, and a couple even raised their voices in protest. Chaime heard a term used that he had not before, a new word he presumed, though the Treebrothers added additional phrases to their tongue but rarely... the word seemed to have something to do with a 'longing.'

Chaime thought of the dozen dead Ogier he had seen, lying where they had fallen, in the shade of an ancient oak, by the roadside... seeing dead Treebrothers had depressed him even more than seeing the human corpses, but for those of children... the _Alantin ti Avende_ had been gaunt and haggard, but it did not look as though starvation had killed them anymore than violence had. They had looked as though they had somehow died of sheer misery. The Senior Elder shivered, slightly.

"Did my Son speak with Gwilim Sedai?"

"Oh yes, the _Aes Sedai_ was there when your son addressed the Stump, they laughed and jested a great deal and called each other 'Uncle' and 'Nephew' though I do not think that they can be blood-relations since the one is of _Da'shain _stock and the other..." the Senior Elder eyed Chaime uncertainly for a moment, "...well, they played their music and sang together, late into the night. In the morning, your son was gone."

Chaime frowned. He expected that they had got drunk, also. They usually did. Ledrin was right, young Tro's 'uncle' had always been a bad influence...

* * *

><p>"Well, Nephew, what do you think?"<p>

"It... it looks like a very shiny mirror, Uncle."

"Oh _good_. Years of inspired and meticulous work to create a 'very shiny mirror.' I can now die happy."

"Well, it _is _a mirror. We can see ourselves in it."

"It _isn't_, it just _looks _like one. And now you can see that you have a smudge on your nose. I wasn't going to tell you because it looks amusing and clownish... that's it, wipe it off with your glove. What is that, paint?"

"Yes Uncle, in-between hunting Companions and executing Mesaana's Children, I have been painting red things with my nose. It is _blood_, of course!"

"Whose blood?"

"No-one _you_ know..."

"I might..."

"Well, even if you did once, you would not have recognised them _now_."

"What have you been up to, Nephew?"

"Nothing I shouldn't! It was just a Madman I saw on the road, Uncle, he had destroyed some refugees and made a big pile out of their heads, so I euthanised him."

"You should be careful..."

"It was _easy_, my Shield disrupted his flows while I was running towards him and then I... well anyway, he isn't around anymore. I left _his_ head on top of the pile, incidentally, it seemed appropriate. _He _was no Companion... hmm... some Warmen scouts I met the other day told me they'd been warned that Haindar was coming north-west from Paaran Disen, or from where Paaran Disen used to be, at least... Haindar Javagd... now _he'd _be a challenge... and it would be nice to be in the lead again. It would make Kiam _really _mad..."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Who is Kiam?"

"You met her once, Uncle, she was the young Sister who could fly."

"Oh, _her!_ The Lopiang girl! I got the feeling she didn't like me..."

"She didn't. Maybe it was because you told her what a 'sweet little thing' she was. _Twice_, you had forgotten you'd already said it the first time. Kiam Sedai isn't too keen on that sort of talk. Well, not from _men_, anyway."

"An icy wench indeed. I think I'd probably had a glass of wine too many..."

"Try a whole barrel. Well anyway, watch out because she's following me. She thinks I do not know, but I do. Kiam has never seemed to realise that all of that fancloth doesn't really fool my nose. She smells of lavender, mostly."

"Why is the precocious child prodigy following you? Is she in love?"

"I hope not... that would be worrying... I have no idea, really, perhaps she is bored? Well anyway; watch out, watch out, there's a Kiam Lopiang about!"

"I shall watch the skies closely... Is it avifauna? Is it a sho-wing? No! It's that arrogant Lopiang girl!"

"Yes, she _really_ didn't like you, Uncle. You made that joke to her at the time, by the way, but I do not think you remember. Afterwards, she said to me that having met one of my childhood role models, she could now almost comprehend why I was quite so _annoying_..."

"Oh, never mind all that! Well? Are you going to go in there and admire my genius or aren't you?"

"Do I have to?"

"Yes. You are looking nervous, Nephew."

"I _am_ nervous, Uncle... I have always misliked this sort of thing... do you really want me to walk through the mirror-door or whatever it is?"

"Of course... do you wish to see my glorious Ways or not?"

"Not. I'd really rather stay out here, 'nuncle, if you don't mind..."

"I _do _mind! I thought that you had an enquiring nature? Aren't you the least bit _curious_ about what it's like in there?"

"Not remotely."

"You are scared to walk the Ways! A-feared of that which is new and different! Are you _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor _or a snivelling 'fraidy-puss? _Well?_ Nothing to say for yourself? Cat got your tongue? Come, Nephew, I thought you the heroic type... it would seem I was wrong... are you _man_ or _mouse?_"

"_Neither!_ But _especially _not the dirty, thieving _mouse_... oh alright, I'll have a quick look if you will cease your crude taunts. I just hope it isn't nasty... honestly, you _know _what happens to us Lightborn when we try to go through Gateways..."

"This is no Gateway. It is perfectly safe, just close your eyes and walk straight through the-"

"_Ou'ch!_ Damn-you, it is _cold_... and I bumped my nose!"

"Well, that answers _that_..."

"_Damn-it!_ Answers _what?_ Ow..."

"You can't use Ways any more than you can Gateways..."

"I don't _want _to use them! I've got these things called _legs _and I... I've never had a... a problem..."

"What are you staring at?"

"That young Apprentice of yours... he is giggling and clutching his head... is it me or is the ground starting to shake..?"

"Oh, _tsag!_ Not again! Mitsora, link me with Chulchun, _now!_"

"Do you want me to..?"

"_Only if the shield fails!_"

* * *

><p>At the opposite border of the <em>stedding <em>waited more Ogier soldiers and a young, female _Aes Sedai_. She was tall and slender, dark of skin and hair, with very blue eyes. She wore the golden serpent-ring and a streith gown, a long silken under-gown arranged modestly beneath, rather than the colourful harlequin-coat of 'prentice Caal, still leading the way. Currently, her gown was a pale green. The young Apprentice came to a halt, smiled and waved at the _Aes Sedai_, and Chaime realised that they were brother and sister, twins in fact, with the same complexion and hair colour, the same sharp nose and pointed chin, though his eyes were pale and watery, hers a deeper shade of blue, almost azure. She had a piercing, searching gaze.

"An important visitor for the Master, Mitsora!" 'prentice Caal told her. His staring eyes then moved to the outside, beyond his sister, the place from where the call of _saidin _came so strongly. He took a step toward it. The Ogier guards tensed.

"Stop, Djonni!" the _Aes Sedai _shouted, raising a forbidding hand that glinted with a golden serpent-ring. Her streith gown flashed to a deep red. "Come no closer, brother! You know that you must not. You know _why_." The young Apprentice hesitated while the Treebrother soldiers eyed him cautiously, the Ogier youth placing a large hand gently on his shoulder.

"Listen to your sister," Haltha rumbled softly, "you should not go."

Apprentice Caal trembled violently, eyes locked with those of his sister for a long moment... then, with a harsh sob, he turned and fled back into the _stedding_.

The young _Aes Sedai_ watched him go, love and distress filling her gaze in equal measure, her gown fading to a washed-out yellow. "Haltha, please follow and make sure he is alright," she murmured, without taking her eyes from the trees into which her brother had disappeared. The Ogier youth nodded in assent.

"Of course, Mitsora Sedai." He bowed to both _Aes Sedai_, then departed rapidly on long legs whilst the Ogier soldiers faded soundlessly back into the trees, leaving Chaime alone with the Sister... he had left his Apprentices back at the stump. None had wanted to take Sanctuary and remain here. He wished that some had. It would have lessened his guilt. They were all going to die before he did, according to the _Aelfinn_... but he could not tell them.

Mitsora Sedai's cool gaze turned to him, in sharp contrast with the passion that had appeared in her eyes and delicate features when she warned her brother away. The streith slowly shifted to a blue that matched her eyes, and remained that shade.

"You are Chaime Kufer, _Aes Sedai_," she stated, and surprised him when she curtsied gracefully, one skirt held slightly raised as though she were at a formal ball. It was not a very deep curtsy, but Chaime appreciated even this much respect. There were few amongst his Sisters who would acknowledge that he was of their number, let alone stood higher than they. He inclined his head.

"I am. Mitsora, they called you?"

"Mitsora Caal, Apprentice." She flushed slightly, a momentary flicker of pink in the blue streith. "Mitsora Sedai, I mean. I am unused to saying it, I have not been Raised very long." She regained her composure, her eyes curious. "Gwilim Sedai said that you were still at the Black College. There were rumours of your..." she blinked, then smiled slightly. "Forgive me."

Mitsora looked at him, but did not speak further, her hands folded before the wide, golden belt she wore snugged about her waist A Well-_ter'angreal _by the looks of it. Chaime smiled at her. "I see a question in your eyes."

Mitsora did not quibble or attempt to deny it, merely _asked_. Chaime found himself warming to her. "They always called you 'the Defector' at the Academy."

"I am sure that they did. But that is not a question, it is a statement."

"Why did you go over to the Shadow, Chaime Sedai?"

"Now, that most certainly _is_ a question." Chaime considered whether to answer, decided that he would, then considered further _how_ to answer, since he had been asked this a great deal over the years, though not for some time, and rarely gave any of his interlocutors the same reply. He decided to mostly tell the truth on this occasion, but was not sure why. He began his answer with another question;

"Young lady, if you found yourself in a very nasty place, surrounded by piled human skulls, shielded from the True Source, the foot of a Myrddraal on your neck... and if your old Master smiled down at you and said that you could either assist him with his research or go to feed the waiting Trollocs... well, Mitsora Caal, Apprentice, who has so recently been Raised up to Mitsora Sedai... what would _you _do?"

This was a heavily-edited version of the actual incident, which still gave Chaime his worst nightmares more than a century on, not so much because of his own terror, which still shamed him, but because of what had happened to his _Da'shain_, some of whom had been taken prisoner also. Ledrin's wife had been amongst them... he had managed to save _her _at least, for a while, though Aginor would not spare the others... he had preserved her alone... he liked to think that this was why he had agreed to serve his old Master again, to swear his Oaths to the Great Lord... to the _Dark One_... but he knew that he had made the terrible choice more to save himself than Lyanara.

Mitsora considered a moment, dispassionately. "I do not know," she answered, quite truthfully, "I would need to be in that situation before I could have any idea what I would do." She frowned. "But I do not think that I would swear service to the Shadow to avoid being eaten, it would be illogical, for it would be better to have one's flesh consumed by Trollocs and be reborn into a new form than to have one's soul devoured by the Dark One and die forever. Oh, excuse me..."

"That is quite alright, I take no offence at being reminded that I once forsook the Light and am doubtless eternally damned, as a result... I _did_ mind once, I suppose, but have grown accustomed to it over the years..." Chaime smiled up at the willowy Aes Sedai, who was a good head taller than he, "...besides, when I went with Aginor to _Shayol Ghul_ and swore my Oaths over the burning Pit of Doom..." he grinned, "...well, just between us, I actually had my _fingers _crossed behind my _back_, so that it would not count."

"Did you really?" Her blue eyes were wide with interest.

Chaime sighed. "No, my dear, that was supposed to be _amusing_. And as for the Trollocs... all metaphysical considerations aside... well, they were drooling. Ravenous. I had never seen Beastmen before... I was not really prepared for the sight; the teeth-filled muzzles and vicious beaks, the claws on their hands, the talons on their feet... their horribly human eyes fixed on me whilst they slavered. They wished to eat me alive whilst my old Master watched with great satisfaction, and I did not choose to let them. I had always hated old Ishar Morrad, especially back when I was his 'prentice... but my hatred was nothing to what I felt on _that _night, when he made me choose between a horrific death or service to the Shadow..."

Chaime had been told to make a far worse choice than _that_... to choose which of his _Da'shain _would be spared, since Aginor would allow him only one. He could not choose, so the _Da'shain'allein _had made the choice for him... they all pointed at Lyanara, then bowed to their Master one last time, though he lay pinned to the ground beneath the boot of a Myrddraal and could not honour them by bowing back. Then, as one, they had turned and walked toward the waiting Trollocs. He forced himself to watch and not close his eyes. There was merely courageous, and then there was _Aiel_.

Aginor had watched also, with amusement. He had made a comment about 'cowardly leaf-lovers' who were 'too scared to fight.'

Mere hatred was inadequate to express Chaime's feelings toward his old Master, the other Friends to the Darkness who had betrayed their own humanity... nor equal to his rage at the Shadow, his loathing for the Dark One... the flames of his antipathy fanned to new heights by what happened, on the night he was sent for.

Mitsora was watching him closely and he thought that he could see unshed tears glistening in her eyes, though her gaze remained steady. She was an interesting girl, wasted here in this _stedding_, nurse-maid to her poor, mad brother. Chaime wondered why he was answering her question in such detail, speaking of terrible things, recollecting events that were even worse... well, he knew _exactly _why. He might be close to eight-hundred years old, might not be much inclined toward romance these days... but he was still a _man_, and an attractive young woman with pretty blue eyes was expressing an interest, asking him about himself... and he was, of course, quite helpless to resist. Besides, he would be dead soon, hopefully, so he might as well tell _someone _the truth. This interesting girl would do.

Chaime shrugged his bony shoulders. "In a way, I died on that night, yet continued to function as a corpse whose own hatred somehow gave it the illusion of life. I wished to escape the trap and I very badly wanted revenge... so I chose to capitulate, and bide my time. And I did. I learned many useful things, many horrific things also, forbidden knowledge of the manipulation of biological life... and then I came back. Back to the Light. Though I have often received the impression that the Light would have preferred it otherwise. Well, the Dragon always valued me, at least. But he is gone now, until his return, though we will neither of us live to see _that _day." Chaime smiled... well, _leered _a little, to be honest. She was... personable.

"So, young lady, _that _is why I swore to the Shadow. Through an admixture of terror, cowardice and selfishness, combined with latent hatred and the keen desire for retribution. I have never regretted my decision... just everything _else_."

"Thank you for answering my question in such detail, Chaime Sedai." Mitsora curtsied again, a quick bend of the knees. She spoke much as though she had just asked him to clarify a minor point after his lecture, and not to relive the most dreadful moment of his long life, well-stocked with such horrors... Chaime's smile became more respectful. Over and above her looks, he _liked _this girl!

"Why did you ask, anyway? Does it even matter anymore?"

Mitsora smiled back, hesitantly. "Oh, because when he was here, I spoke with your... son. The Last Lightborn. He became cross with me when I referred to you as 'the Defector.' He made an angry, hissing sound, but accepted my apology with good grace." Her smile widened a little. "And a week later, here you are, Chaime Sedai. A good opportunity to hear your version of events, to form my own conclusion."

"Which is?"

"That your censure by the Grand Hall was inappropriate... you did not serve the Shadow willingly, you escaped as soon as you could, brought back valuable knowledge..." her face became solemn, "...without which you could not have Constructed any of the Lightborn... the Thirdborn particularly, I believe?"

"What did you think of him?" Chaime asked more as an artist soliciting an opinion of the sculpture of which he was most proud (or second-most proud) than as a father... and Mitsora responded more as a connoisseur of art than a woman.

"He is... impressive, in his physicality, his abilities, the perfect living weapon in many ways... a combination of speed and strength, a predator. I sensed that his nature was very wild, yet held in check by his conditioning, his devotion to duty... and, if you will forgive the misnomer, his _humanity_." She shrugged. "I had met him before, briefly, but was able to form a more cohesive opinion on this occasion... when I first saw him I remember being surprised, he was not so tall as I imagined he would be, from the stories. He _was_ impressive, though... but his manner, his behaviour... I thought that he would be more like a Warman, and he most certainly was not. If anything, he reminds me of my brother's Master. Of Gwilim Sedai."

"He would. The man had a formative role in his upbringing, unfortunately."

Mitsora regarded Chaime seriously. "He is a worthy weapon against the Shadow. I enjoyed his company. You did well, Chaime Sedai. I am honoured to have met you... a true servant of the Light." This time she bowed, a little awkwardly, but making quite a respectable job of it.

Chaime tucked his hands in his sleeves and bowed back, solemnly. He grinned. "Were I but a hundred years younger, I would doubtless very much appreciate your attempts to turn my head with flattery," he observed, sardonically.

The young _Aes Sedai_ raised her eyebrows. She did not blush, though a reddish flush appeared momently in the blue of her streith gown. "That was not my intent."

"I know. Do forgive my unfortunate sense of humour..."

"Your son relished exercising his wit also... quite unlike a Warman..." she sighed "...and of course, Gwilim Sedai does enjoy his jests..."

"_My_ intent, on the other hand, was to deflate the glowing opinion you seem to have of me, for your own good."

"Why so?"

"Because it is a _false_ opinion, though refreshingly approving compared with how most of your Sisters view me. Bear in mind that a desire to destroy the Shadow does not automatically make one a servant of the Light, which I forsook so long ago." Chaime considered a moment. "There are... creatures, who inhabit Realms that exist upon the other side of certain doorways... they hate the Shadow every bit as much as I do, from what little I have been able to ascertain... but it would be a sore mistake to consider them as being anything other than evil."

Mitsora considered this, raised her eyebrows a little, then indicated with a graceful motion of her left hand, which which had not worn the Ring for very long, that he should accompany her. Chaime followed as she led the way toward a large slab of stone... and shivered as he crossed the invisible border of the _stedding _and felt the Source again, much like an extra eye opening. Mitsora took a deep breath, and goose-bumps on his skin told him that she had embraced _saidar_... he did not likewise seize _saidin_, even the small amount he could hold. Best not to tempt fate.

Mitsora went directly to the slab, upon which were worked vines and leaves rendered with such delicate skill that the stonework seemed to surpass even that of the Ogier... she reached for the trefoil leaf, the only one of its kind set amidst the profusion of other leaves, and it came away in her hand. She replaced it in the carving further down and the entirety of the gate came alive, leaves rustling as though in a zephyr, for all that the air was still, a line appearing and dividing down the centre.

Chaime took a cautious step back as the two halves of this 'way-gate' opened outwards, then examined his reflection in the gleaming, silver skein that lay beyond. His horn-hilted dagger-_ter'angreal_ was not hanging straight on its silken cord. He straightened it. He looked thin and drawn... and not entirely sane. Well, he _wasn't_. He tugged at his pale, twisted moustaches a little.

"I am to walk through this?" Chaime enquired.

"Yes, Chaime Sedai." Mitsora stood beside him, gazing at her own reflection, a rather morbid expression shadowing her features. The streith shifted to black. She spoke, tonelessly; "follow the white line until you reach the Guiding and take the bridge beyond, traverse it until-"

"You are not coming?" Chaime was not entirely sure whether he wished to go in there alone... wherever 'there' might prove to be.

Mitsora looked uncomfortable, and Chaime imagined that he saw fear in her eyes for a moment, before she composed herself with a visible effort, resuming her serenity. "I should prefer not to. I have not ventured into the Ways since... well, I had an unfortunate experience, within the Spiral... I lost my way down in the darkness, and... at times, I heard... or _thought_ I heard..." she blinked, shook her head. "No matter... but be warned, you touch the Source in there... though in a different way, the Taint is present within _saidin_, but... there is something _else _there, also..."

Chaime eyed young Mitsora Sedai askance... she had seemed very rational up until this point... she was saner than her brother, of course, but still... in these times, there were terrors that could snap the strongest mind, of male and female _Aes Sedai_ alike. Chaime had encountered Brothers who had gone mad without any help from the Taint and Sisters who were in as bad or worse a state, for all that _saidar_ remained clean and pure. The young _Aes Sedai's_ azure eyes widened a little, her voice dropping to a toneless murmur; "I heard them, down there in the dark, I am sure of it..." she shuddered, "...those awful voices, whispering vile words to me..."

* * *

><p>"How is that deer coming along, Nephew?"<p>

"It is getting there, Uncle, though why you would want to burn perfectly good meat is completely beyond me."

"We're only human, even _me_, we can't digest it raw like you can. You've got blood on your chin. Messy boy. Started without us, eh?"

"I only ate the _liver_. I don't mind it cooked, I suppose, if it has to be..."

"You ate the heart too, I saw you, greedy monster!"

"_I_ chased it and snapped its neck, I'll eat its heart if I want to!"

"_Eurgh_. Wipe your mouth... no, the other side... hmm..."

"_I see a question in your eyes!_"

"Hah! Sounds _just _like him... it's eerie, that voice thing you do... almost as eerie as the rest of you..."

"Ask!"

"I was just wondering, Nephew, given that you are, after all, a sort of monster... _don't scowl_, I didn't say you weren't a _nice _monster, and my favourite monster-nephew at that, well, my _only_ monster-nephew _left_ now, unfortunately... but with your love of music and your enquiring, naive nature, you were always my fave-"

"_Uncle!_ Is this a question or a meandering and nostalgic dissertation, insultingly well-seeded with the word 'monster?' "

"_Touchy!_ Well, Nephew, I was just watching you stuffing your face with bits of raw deer, and... well... monsters _are _often said to be fond of human flesh..?"

"Of course I haven't ever done that, don't be disgusting! I've never cared for pork, anyway... Middle-Bro always said that people _behaved _like pigs, but according to him, they also _taste _a bit like-"

"_He didn't!_"

"He _did_."

"Oh, _this _I _have _to hear, even though it will probably sicken me... a bit like one of Asmo's early symphonies..."

"Well, if you are sure, Uncle..."

"I'm not, but tell me what happened anyway, Nephew..."

"It was just a few months before the War ended (or so we thought) while I was still squiring for Taw, we were all out west beyond the World Sea; _Shen an Sora_, a few of the Immortals who were still left, Middle-Bro and me..._ and_ that stinking great hound of his, unfortunately..."

"Oh, the Lighthound. He loved having his tummy tickled. Delightful dog."

"No he wasn't. Anyway, we had just finished-up with the Sons of the Night, we had been sent to eliminate them and they _definitely_ got eliminated... we were on our way back when we got word, some of Mesaana's Children had attacked and taken a border-town and they did what they usually did when they took a town, though they spared the young children to take them back to one of her Schools... they were long gone when we got there and they'd used jumpers so there was no trail, but Hound caught a straggler who's hoverfly had broken-down and brought him back, more or less alive... the Child of Mesaana had been heavily compulsed like they always are, he couldn't or wouldn't tell us where they'd taken the kids, no matter what we did, the truth-drugs didn't work and the War-Brothers said that if they tried to remove the Compulsion it would kill the Shadowsworn before he could give us any information... even Middle-Bro _staring_ at him for a few bells didn't do it... it usually did with prisoners, but not this time... so Taw got angry. Angry in that really scary way he did sometimes, where he would just keep smiling a lot..."

"_Brrr! _I remember, you had to leave the room... you could feel it in your bones when he was _that _angry..."

"Well, I _stayed_ in the room, me and one of the Immortals of the Light, though we wished we hadn't. Middle-Bro sat the Friend of the Dark down in a chair, nailed his hand to the table, drew his sword and cut it off at the wrist, just like that... he asked the War-Brother to Heal the Shadowsworn's stump so that he would not bleed to death, and then... then Taw sat down in the chair opposite and ate his hand. He did it really slowly, right in front of the prisoner, he even made 'mmm' noises while he was sucking the meat off the finger-bones. When he had finished chewing, he told the Child of Mesaana that he was _still _hungry and that it would be a foot next. Then an arm. Then a leg. He would eat him all, bit by bit, and keep him alive as long as possible to see it. He would eat his eyes last. The Shadowsworn _believed_ him, I did too, and he told us where the School was hidden, even though the Compulsion killed him right after... he seemed quite _glad _to die after what Middle-Bro had done to him. We went there and executed all of Mesaana's Children and saved the kids. The End."

"I feel sick..."

"So did I. The War-Brother was sick outside, but not as much as me. Middle-Bro just laughed at us while he fed the rest of the Shadowsworn to Hound and made jokes about him being a 'Friend of the Pork' and stuff like that... I loved my Brother very much and not a day passes I don't miss him... but _he _was _definitely _a monster."

"I'm just thoroughly glad that the Secondborn was on _our _side!"

"I thought Middle-Bro had gone too far, even for _him_, and gave him some fairly disapproving stares later, after we had delivered the children to the orphanage, but he just looked at me scathingly and said; "_I may be a Myrddraal that serves the Light, Little Brother... but I am still a Myrddraal_."

"_Brrr! _It lives! You sound just like _him_, too..."

"_You sound just like him, too_..."

"Stop doing that!"

"_Stop doing that!_"

"It isn't funny!"

"_It isn't funny!_"

"Damned copycat..."

"_Sssss!_ Um... Uncle..?"

"Yes, gluttonous monster-nephew?"

"Is that other 'prentice of yours... _alright?_ The tall, quiet one, not the excitable one I had to carry back into the _stedding_ kicking and screaming after you shielded him... _he's _obviously not alright, but the tall one who can barely see through his hair, I showed him how to turn the spit and he's doing it... sort of... but... doesn't he ever _say_ anything? He's worse than a Warman!"

"He doesn't really _speak _anymore, no. Bit Tainted probably, we all are here, but young Chulchun never used to talk much anyway, even before the second wave of the Backlash started to hit. Dab hand with a lute, excellent phrasing and chording... not much of a voice, though..."

"_Clearly!_ Why do your Apprentices always have to be good musicians?"

"Because I don't need them to _think_, I take care of that, but I do enjoy music."

"The Mother always liked music too. She taught me to sing."

"Did a good job. I was sorry to hear about Latra... Mitsora told us what happened..."

"The girl 'prentice? She was really angry with me, wasn't she?"

"Of course she was, you knocked her brother out!"

"He was trying to run out of the _stedding _for the _third_ time and you wouldn't let me tie him up! I got impatient. Hmm, I _know _I've seen her somewhere... Mitsora... it rings a bell... out east in the Buffer Zone, maybe..?"

"She was posted there, I believe..."

"I'll remember. It's bad out there, everything's gone now... did you hear what happened at Tzora, Uncle? Damn, now why did I have to go and ask you _that?_"

"Too late, Nephew, you've done it now. Yes, I heard. Poor Jaric."

"_Poor_..? Jaric Mondoran massacred ten thousand _Da'shain!_ How can you say _that?_"

"How can I _not _say it? Nor feel pity for him, for the man he was... we were raised together in the Leaf Way, Jaric and I, we were close as brothers... he always had a better voice than me but was not near so proficient with the mandolin... we sang the seeds shoulder-to-shoulder, in our youth, before we both manifested... and later, we stood side-by-side at the Tamyrlin's palace and joined in the Singing... he was a good friend, and for him to have become what he has become, well... poor Jaric."

"I still don't understand, Uncle..."

"Because you were not born _Da'shain_, Nephew. I understand, and those he killed, they who he destroyed, one-by-one, as they stood and sang and died... _they _understood."

* * *

><p>Chaime Kufer, <em>Aes Sedai<em>, paced along the endless shining bridge through dark nothingness, his hands folded in the wide sleeves of his black, velvet robes, his ward against the Shadow, the dagger-_ter'angreal_ he never removed, thumping against his skinny chest with each step. He suspected that even here, in what he assumed was the lesser void – or _one_ of the lesser voids, since he presumed that, as with vacuoles, there were a great many of them, though such had never been his area of expertise – that even here, the Great Lord of the Dark could reach, could sense those who had once felt his touch. No, not the Great Lord... he had another name...

"The Dark One!" Chaime shouted, his voice echoing hollowly about him. Yes. The Dark One. He glanced upwards while he walked. The artificial sky was too blue, the artificial suns that drifted periodically over his path, too yellow. Apart from that, they seemed very well designed, these Ways. Ahead, something came into view, a large platform of gleaming stone hovering in the dark, further bridges radiating out from it to more distant platforms, ramps leading up and down. A slab of pale stone decorated with silvery Ogier script, that looked more as though it had sprouted than been written. An 'Island' Mitsora had told him. The First Island. He should wait there, for the Master. He would be walking around within his Ways, but should not be long. Though in fact, he was already there...

Chaime examined the Master as he approached on silent sandals. For all that he was _Aes Sedai_, he was dressed like a troubadour, as usual. The tall, wide-shouldered man stood with his back to the bridge, standing at the very edge of the Island, surveying the domain he had created... he had his hands held comfortably behind him and was shifting his weight back and forth on his toes and heels. Chaime frowned. His former 'prentice never could stand or sit still, had always been fidgeting... dropping things... the man had a wild mane of reddish hair falling down past his shoulders and his long coat of dark leather was decorated in even more ornate fashion than that worn by his poor, mad Apprentice. Or the other one, with the lute, who was probably mad too. The Taint aside, they doubtless emulated their Master in madness as well as in fashion and a love for music.

The diagonal patches covering the harlequin-coat were hued in a variety of muted, metallic colours, dull silvers and bronzes, corroded blue steel and rusty red iron... that, and the tarnished gold knee boots were all that could be seen of his garb, and nothing of his skin, since the hands clasped together in the small of his back wore copper-coloured gloves of thin leather.

Chaime regarded the man for a while, as the man himself regarded what he had made with a satisfaction that was evident in his posture alone, since his face could not be seen. Chaime watched his former 'prentice, one of the few _Aes Sedai _he had ever considered friend rather than colleague. Not that he _looked _like a Servant of All... he certainly did not _dress_ like one, anymore than he had ever troubled to _behave_ like one. This was one of the reasons Chaime had always liked him, beyond the fact that he had known him all his life, in addition to the professional respect he accorded to one as gifted in their field as he in his, though it was a field that had never held much interest for him... these 'Ways' were quite spectacular though, he had to admit. Then, the object of his attention did something other than gazing proudly out upon his creation and bouncing on his toes. He _sang_.

Since he knew him well, Chaime was not particularly surprised when the man abruptly threw back his head and lifted his voice in a pleasant, light baritone. He did not sing in the High nor the Song Tongue, it was neither choral piece nor operatic solo, but two verses from a bawdy refrain in the Low, his voice echoing oddly;

"_...the maid, she lifted up her skirts and showed him both her knees,_

_said; 'if you milk my cow Warman I'll show you more than these!' "_

It was taken from _The Soldier and the Milkmaid_. Chaime smiled as he took a deep breath through his nostrils. _That_ was not a song that one was likely to hear in any of the Grand Auditoria of Paaran Disen. Not that they existed anymore. Before the man in the harlequin-coat could continue with his song, Chaime broke-in with a cracked tenor, supplying two complimentary verses from later on in the musical narrative, _after_ the soldier had obligingly milked the cow, requiring the forward young maid to live up to _her_ end of the bargain;

"_...the maid, she then slipped off her blouse and showed him even more,_

_she did not think she'd ever seen a Warman smile before!"_

The man (who had written this song during the War) turned sharply, and stared at Chaime. Staring with the bright blue eyes that filled the holes in the ancient, beaten-copper mask he wore, worked in the shape of a smiling fox's face. Chaime had expected that he would be wearing it, and the hollow tones of his singing had confirmed this. The mask-_ter'angreal_ kept him sane, after all. Supposedly. The blue eyes continued to stare. There was something more than a little mad about them.

"Remove that foolish mask and greet your old Master properly, lout!" Chaime snapped. The man responded by tearing off the mask and stuffing it into a capacious pocket, revealing a handsome, ruddy face, a wide mouth and strong nose... though there were deeper lines around his staring eyes than there had been, Chaime noted. The tall man smiled broadly as he strode forward, flinging both arms out wide and pulling Chaime's bony frame into an enthusiastic embrace, his sandals lifting slightly from the shining stone beneath their feet.

"Walrus Sedai!" he bellowed, happily.

"Cease your squeezing, you young oaf!" Chaime complained, though not altogether unkindly. The younger _Aes Sedai _grinned, released Chaime from the confines of his powerful arms and gazed down at him with delight.

"And I thought you slain long since," declared Gwilimin Leafwright, _Aes Sedai_, Grower-of-the-Ways, "devoured by one of your monsters!"

* * *

><p>"Well, Uncle, everyone else has gone to bed, it is just us now."<p>

"Yes, the _Alantin ti Avende _never seem to like to stay up late..."

"Your 'prentices seem to have disappeared too."

"Well in that case, don't stand on ceremony, feel free to take your gloves off, Nephew. You'll be able to play this fiddle better, I have written a song you'll like..."

"I doubt I will, 'nuncle, and I play fine with these thin ones. But I might as well, I suppose..."

"In fact, I think _I_ will, too..."

"Um..."

"It's alright, Nephew, I'm only joking! _My_ gloves are definitely staying _on_... remember that time when I showed you my hands? You yowled and ran and hid under the bed!"

"_Of course I did_, you were the only person I'd ever met who had scarier hands than _me!_ And talking of hands, what are you doing with Father's _sa'angreal_, anyway?"

"He gave it to me a few years ago, sent it back with the 'prentices who delivered the _Aelfinn _Doorway to the _Collam Doon_. About time he gave me something good in return for all the devices I've made for him over the years... your Father is incredibly _cheap_... you know it's one of a pair?"

"Well yes, it _would _be..."

"Culan Cuhan had the other, it was shaped like a fist, not pointy like this one. Right Hand, Left Hand... quick march... did you hear about Shorelle?"

"I heard there was an enormous wave..."

"I've seen the images... the once-Companion, Culan Cuhan... the first of them to come south, the Right Hand of the Dragon... still wearing that golden shatter-cloth, though it had got a bit tarnished up in the Blight... he walked right up to the city gates, holding _Cair Sovye _aloft... there were several full Circles of War-Sisters waiting for him. He killed them all, then unexpectedly turned aside from the city and walked out into the Eastern Ocean. Just kept walking until his head disappeared beneath the waves. The citizens of Shorelle couldn't believe their luck, they thought he'd drowned himself... the tide went out unusually far that evening, so far that you couldn't even see the Ocean anymore, and the wave came with the dawn... and now Shorelle isn't there anymore, and neither is the Great Eastern Ocean, for that matter."

"What is there now?"

"Wasteland, drying-out beneath the hot sun... an arid, rocky desert, slowly forming... I doubt anyone will ever live there, but if they do, then mayhap one day they will find Culan Cuhan's bones, and his golden _sa'angreal _also..."

* * *

><p>Gwilim had been visited the previous week by the Thirdborn, his 'nephew' and favourite out of all of old Chaime Kufer's monsters, and it seemed that he was now being further visited by his former Master, the man responsible for their creation. No, Construction, though Chaime probably thought he was fairly close to the Creator in the hierarchy of things. In addition to being Gwilim's best friend, he was also the most arrogant man he had ever met in his life, and it had been a fairly long life, not including the hundred years he had spent as an unwilling guest of the <em>Eelfinn<em>. You didn't age in the Realms, that would be too _linear_, it would make too much sense.

"Number Three came to see me a few days ago, old Walrus, he said he was on his way to answer your summons..."

"Yes, it is true that I summoned him."

"Why?"

"To save him, and perhaps to save the future, also."

"Fair enough, I know better than to ask further, my inscrutable old Master. It was nice to see him again. He didn't like the new song I wrote, though..."

"_I'll tell you some riddles of mogs who play fiddles _

_and cows that leap for leagues, _

_of dogs who grant wishes and eloping dishes and..._"

_Gwilim stopped singing because his musician had stopped playing. He had lowered instrument and bow both, and was glaring at the singer with his scary eyes. _

"_Mogs?" hissed the Thirdborn, waving the fiddle accusingly. He scowled. _

_Gwilim raised his gloved hands in placation. "No offence meant, Nephew... nothing personal... brrr! I had forgot how fearsome your pupils look when they go narrow like that!" _

_The Thirdborn looked down at the fiddle he held. "Mog," he muttered, disparagingly. _

"_It rhymes with 'dog' in the Low, and it sounds better than 'cat.' "_

"_Riddles rhymes with fiddles, but I play the harp also," the Thirdborn pointed-out as Gwilim was unceremoniously passed back his sung-wood fiddle. The Ogier were very good about singing instruments for him from time to time. _

"_But nothing in the Low rhymes with... except... hmm... carp with the harp?"_

"_That is silly, how would it manage the strings with its fins? And it is a silly song as well. I play the shama too and have recently finished learning the flute also, by the way..." the Last Lightborn pointed a claw accusingly at him, his pointy teeth flashing as he declared; "_now_ I understand why you wished me to accompany you with this particular instrument for the rendition of your absurd ballad, Uncle... because it would amuse you to make a reference to my-"_

"_Oh, now you're just being paranoid, Nephew!" _

"_Well... perhaps I am... you did teach me my first instrument, I suppose..."_

"_Why are you grinning like that? You always look as though you are about to bite someone..."_

"_I might bite you one day, Uncle, so watch out... I was just remembering that story you told me when you gave me the fiddle... about how you won it from Shai'tan after going to Shayol Ghul and challenging the Dark One to a fiddle-playing contest!"_

"_I _did_ win the fiddle in a-"_

"_No you didn't, you've always been an enormous liar... but I was only three, I believed you! For years I used to look at the fiddle with pride, as a symbol of our eventual defeat of the Shadow! Taw caught me staring at it one time and pointed-out that it was sung-wood and Shai'tan would hardly be dispensing Ogier-made instruments to the winners of fiddle-playing contests... he threatened to break it over my head if I didn't grow up and stop being so naive because it would only get me killed in the War, like our Big Brother... and it is still a silly song!" _

"_I am not a liar and I only wrote it to entertain the Ogier children! They quite like my songs, though the Elders disapprove of the ruder ones. It's based on an ancient rhyme I found, your Father translated it for me..."_

"_Well, I do not like your songs, Uncle. The instrumentation is good enough, but I do not favour having to listen to singing in the vulgar Low Chant..."_

"_It is a zesty, spirited language, replete with bold phrasing!" _

"_It is clumsy and brutish when compared with the High, and even more so in comparison to the sophistication of the Song Tongue..." The Thirdborn cleared his throat, and sang; "eh dat'sa si da'e llehs yu ym seoh ll'on!"_

"_Cease your caterwauling or I shall throw a boot at you! Not that ridiculous damn opera about the murdering shoe-maker again!" _

_The Thirdborn looked offended. "I have always found it to be very entertaining. Torian Simoom was a talented composer..."_

"_He was a damned idiot! I saw him once, when I was still just an Apprentice and sneaked out of the Collam to Travel to a party at a friend's place in V'saine... your Father was very annoyed when he caught me creeping back in the morning, since he'd grounded me for accidentally ruining his latest batch by introducing the wrong compound to the culture flasks... he de-stood me as his 'prentice on the spot and sent me off to the Hill to work for old Ghenjei Sedai instead... you're lucky he did, Nephew, or you might not have been born! Anyway, it was a great party and Torian Simoom was sitting in the corner wearing lots of ter'angreal-jewellery and streith, he was very old and had long white hair (like you used to) and all the personality of a corpse! In fact, I would have thought he was dead, except that he would occasionally murmur something to one of his concubines and then giggle like a big girl!"_

"_I wish you had not told me that. But do you not see, Uncle, how much more subtle is the Song Tongue than this foolish vulgarity which you spout forth?"_

"_No!" This was an old argument. It went on for a while, and Mitsora Sedai watched and listened from the heavy moon-shadows beneath the Great Trees. _

* * *

><p>Gwili gestured with a copper gloved hand, out at the yawning blackness filled with the graceful arcs of shining bridges, sweeping to distant islands stacked one atop the other, connected each to each by gracefully spiralling ramps... evincing the pride of one who knows that they have accomplished something truly spectacular.<p>

"Well, my old Master," Gwili enquired of Chaime, "what do you think?"

"I think that the Taint must be affecting you in a particularly strange fashion, for you to wish to grow pathways through the lesser void, in order to..." Chaime shook his head, caustically. "Why have you done this? To what purpose? _Is_ there a purpose?"

Gwili turned, smiling back at the ancient _Aes Sedai _he had once stood 'prentice to, evincing that same, irrepressible mirth as ever. It was not madness, that Chaime saw in those piercing, _Da'shain_-blue eyes, but something much akin to it. Genius.

"Gratitude," said Gwili, "_that_ is the purpose, old Walrus!"

Chaime tugged the twisted spikes of hair that projected, tusk-like, from his otherwise bare top lip, to hide his own smile. Even after all these years, Gwili _still _called him that... he was surprised at how pleasant it felt, to be named something other than 'Defector' or 'Master' or even 'Father.' Though not exactly complimentary, it was certainly an affectionate term...

"To whom are you so grateful that you would do... _this_, you young fool?" Chaime demanded. Though he already knew, he just wanted to hear it from the madman's mouth.

Gwilim continued to smile. It was his habitual expression, whether it was his own smile or that beaten in copper upon his mask, both smiles equally permanent. "The Ogier of course!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "they gave my people Sanctuary, offered the gift to many others besides, asking nothing in return, incurring the enmity of our dear Sisters in so doing... it was very good of them. I wanted to give the Treebrothers a gift, before I went away. We all did." He gestured expansively at the shining bridges and ramps that led from the Island. "And here it is."

"Here _what _is? It looks like some sort of insane work of art."

"Oh, it is that too, Walrus Sedai... but walk a day here, and you may emerge from another Waygate a full week's travel hence... surely you can see the practical applications? Not that there _are _any other Waygates, not yet at least... well, I have given the Talisman-of-Growing to the Elders and showed them how to use it... it is triggered by Tree-singing, which I thought appropriate... whether they wish to grow further Gates is _their _concern. I wash my hands of it." He scrubbed his gloves together in ironic fashion.

"I am sure that you do, Gwili. What do you mean by; 'before I went away?' Are you going somewhere?"

"Oh yes." Gwilim nodded toward the centre of the Island, where lush, fruiting plants were sprouting behind a low coping. "Would you like a bellfruit? They're not very nice I'm afraid, taste a bit sharp... they haven't grown well so far, but the Brothers to the Trees are working on introducing new varieties... well, the ones that come in here, only young Haltha and a couple of his friends have been in so far... they're not very receptive to new things." He paced over to the coping, before coming back with a bellfruit. The dark, web-cloth coveralls he wore rendered his coat and boots all the more garish by comparison. They were his sole concession to the wearing of black, as was usually expected of a male _Aes Sedai_ who had attained the title of 'Master.' "Here, this one looks fairly ripe, try it..."

Chaime shook his head at the yellow, mottled, vaguely bell-shaped sphere being offered him. "No, I don't much care for fruit... unless it has been_ fermented_."

Gwilim grinned, hurled the offending bellfruit into the void (perhaps it would fall forever?) and produced a hip-flask from one of his pockets. It was silver, engraved with snakes & foxes. "There are a few problems, of course," he muttered, pouring brandy into the cap and handing it to Chaime, clinking the flask against it and taking a swig.

Chaime sipped the fiery liquor. "Problems?"

"_Time_, old Walrus! Always a big problem, anything that affects the temporal. Humans, Ogier, we are creatures of the great turning Wheel, after all, but when we visit places where we were never meant to go... there _is_ no time in the greater and lesser voids, I have discovered, except for that which we impose... I found a solution of course, but my earliest Ways seemed to grow through the darkness of their own volition, before I learned to better control them... there is a place near to here ('near' being a relative term, naturally) that I have been unable to eradicate, which I call 'the Spiral.' It is where those first Ways coil in on themselves, going deeper into the heart of the void. Darker, also. And whereas the Great Wheel turns slightly faster throughout my Ways than it does outside... well, with the Spiral, the further you go in, the slower it gets!"

"The Spiral? I believe the young lady mentioned something like that..."

"Aye, Mitsora got lost in there and I had to go in and find her... by the time we got back, near three months had elapsed in the world outside, though I could swear it was only a week for us! My chronometer ceased to function, so I cannot be certain... poor Mitsy has not been quite the same since... she said that when she slept in the darkness, at times she heard low voices, whispering horrible things in her ears, that sometimes she felt a gentle breeze against her face..."

"She did not wish to venture again into your Ways. I see why." Chaime eyed the darkness around them, then gazed at Gwili, who quailed a little beneath the censure he doubtless well-recalled from his year as the worst 'prentice Chaime had ever had. "What she reports is disturbing to me. They sound as if they are the voices of '_Legion_.' "

"What is that?"

"An ancient religious concept that I have read of in very old texts scribed in the Root Speech, translated from even earlier writings. Tell me, young Gwili, are you familiar with a word in the Low Chant; '_hell_.' "

"Why, yes. It refers to a very rough sort of tavern, where dicing and fist-fights occur and loose women disport themselves... the sort of place Eval Ramman would have liked. Well, I might have too, but not if _that _damned brute was breathing the same pipe-smoke as me... I would choose a different Hell, where I did not have to look at his piggish face."

"_Hell_ has an older meaning, there are ancient writings that speak of a plane of existence not unlike the Pit of Doom, that allegedly lies far beneath us... perhaps this descending Spiral of yours has tapped into something best left undisturbed?"

"Nonsense. Poor girl just got lost and scared. Overactive imagination, doubtless. If she were one of the lads, then I would worry that the Taint had begun to affect her... thank the Light _saidar_ is still clean!"

"Yes," agreed Chaime, "we madmen are bad enough... mad _women_ though... that is _not_ a prospect that I wish to contemplate..."

"Indeed!" concurred Gwilim, fervently. "Though they're _all_ a bit mad anyway, bless 'em. Our dear Sisters most of all." He sighed. "Another 'prentice went missing in the early days... he went crazy and ran off into the proto-Ways... never did find out what happened to him... he had my _ocarina_ with him when he vanished, hadn't even asked if he could borrow it... well, he _was_ insane, I suppose, probably forgot to..."

"Your _what?_"

"It's a word in the southern-dialect... that damned round pipe that I had tucked into my pocket and forgot about... back when I went through the Doorway beneath the Hill to study the Foxes, to learn from them if possible... it _wasn't _possible, not really... they're too different. I know more about the _Eelfinn _than anyone alive and I'm still not entirely certain what they even _are_... well, they used the fact that I had brought a musical instrument along to cheat and trick me! They didn't tell me at the time, of course... I always remember stepping back out of the Doorway into the laboratory and being surprised at how _dusty _everything looked. There was an old calendar hanging on the wall and when I saw the date, I realised _why _they'd smiled at me like that. I'll never forget the way they all smiled, because they knew they'd won." And Gwili smiled himself. It was not a particularly nice smile, did not really seem to belong on his good-humoured face. "The lab had been sealed for a long time, its contents declared dangerous (the Snake's Doorway was in there too) so the _Da'shain_ caretakers were very surprised to hear my screams when I noticed what the Foxes had done to my hands."

Gwili shrugged his broad shoulders, raised his gloved hands, fingers slightly clawed. "They _smiled_. Well, I wiped the smiles off their foxy faces a few times, while I was their guest..." he sighed, "still didn't make up for the damn trick they played on me, though... I'd been gone for a hundred years, everyone thought I was dead... dear old Ghenjei Sedai _was_ dead, he'd gone mad trying to understand the Snakes and threw himself from the top of that insane tower he built, up in the north."

"Yes, I remember... poor Ghenjei, he had many Talents, but Flight was not one of them. Still, we were very glad to have you back from the Realms, we threw you a party after your release from the asylum, remember?"

"That was a damned good party... and my _favourite_ part of the party was when Mierin threw her drink over me, right in front of everyone!"

"She was not even invited. Why did she do that? Seeking attention, I would suppose, though she only seemed to incur laughter... even some of the _Da'shain _smiled, though they looked guilty about it afterwards..."

"Except for that _Da'shain _of hers, the odd, twitchy one, what was his name?"

"Charn, I think. Ledrin never cared for him, said he was too devoted to his Mistress to properly keep the Covenant, that he was barely even a Leaf Brother at all... most unusual for him to be rude about another _Aiel_. And Mierin gave you a _very _nasty look before she stormed out."

"I am sure that darling Lanfear would have liked to do much worse than that, but fortunately the evil witch never had the opportunity." Gwili indicated the smiling fox-mask, patting the pocket it bulged. "This shields my dreams to an extent that even the Daughter of the Night could never penetrate... she tried though, often enough... didn't care for me, clearly... I wonder why? Vengeful nature, even for one of the Forsaken... _hah!_ I remember now, how everyone laughed at her, Tamadin thought it was very funny the way I licked my lips and asked Mierin for another, even though it earned me a slap... he made a snorting noise, trying to repress that absurd giggle of his, and the other _Aiel _serving the drinks looked at him disapprovingly, which they often did, of course."

"They did indeed. Your servant was certainly the strangest _Da'shain _I have ever encountered, and I have encountered quite a few over the years... he was the only fat _Aiel _I have ever seen! Though he could sing _both _treble _and_ bass, which was impressive. But that ridiculous, high-pitched _giggle_..."

"Dear old Tamadin, I was very sorry when the falling tree hit him, but in a way I'm glad he missed the Bore and the Collapse... he wouldn't have liked any of that..."

"Where are your other _Da'shain_, anyway?"

"They all went to Tzora when the Hall ordered the _Aiel_ to assemble."

"Oh."

Gwili smiled grimly. "They didn't want to go, I had to insist... I actually thought that they might be _safer _there..."

"Well... they were not. Nowhere is. Not to change the subject, but why _did _Mierin hurl her cocktail into your face?"

"Oh... I enquired of her who the beautiful, golden-haired maiden on Lews Therin's arm was... I knew Ilyena perfectly well of course, I'd known her when she was a girl, back before I went inside for a hundred years... I just asked to annoy that _shaea_."

"Mierin Eronaile _was _annoyed. Some of her drink went on me, too. It contained tomato juice, and besmirched my favourite shirt. But it was all so amusing, I did not particularly mind..."

"It was good to be back from the Realms, at least until the Collapse got going... and I always kept the _ocarina _with me after, as a sort of reminder of how damned stupid I'd been. I might even have been a bit inebriated when I went through the Doorway, I am ashamed to say... though not near so much as that strange, one-eyed _Da'shain _I met in there... he was _paralytic_, stank of fermented cacti! And other things... armed with a big knife, tons of scars... he must have been a distant ancestor of mine, from an Age when the _Da'shain Aiel _were more brutish and primitive and hadn't yet been covenanted to the Leaf Way by the _Aes Sedai_... he cheered me up though, the barbarian, he spoke... well, he was having trouble speaking... but it seemed to be a strange dialect of the Low."

"It is a much older language than people realise."

"Well, One-eye was about the only person I met in there who the _Eelfinn _seemed to dislike even more than me! He _really _annoyed them, as only a terrible drunk can, he was in quite a state... the amusing savage!"

"How could you have met one of your ancestors in the Realms?"

"We call it the Realms, they call it _Sindhol_... and Time exists differently there. It barely exists at all, sometimes. Though they always seem to know how long it's been since the last fool came through the door... a long time, a very long time, a very _very _long time, that sort of thing... I saw visions from the past, from the future... sights a human, even _Aes Sedai_, is not supposed to see..." Gwili smiled at Chaime ruefully, "why do you think I went mad? Once, I looked into a room and there was this pale, pretty Sister in there, she wore the Ring and a bracelet-_angreal_ but nothing else, and those filthy Foxes were..." he scowled.

"Feeding. They were feeding off her. I had one wish left and demanded her release, but they wouldn't agree because she was _Aes Sedai_, and made me grant the freedom of another instead, since they were tired of my holding that final request over their heads. So I asked for the next best thing to an _Aes Sedai_, a _Da'shain_, and they told me that only one _Aiel _had ever been foolish enough to come to the Realms without observing the Terms of the Agreement... apart from _me_, of course, though I wasn't really _Da'shain_ anymore when I staggered through the doorway...

"They took me to the Chamber of Bonds where I was surprised to discover a one-eyed _Da'shain'allein_ pissing up against the wall! I was his advocate, there to speak for him since he didn't seem to know the High Chant... because of the sort of things he was doing and how much it was clearly upsetting the _Eelfinn_, I _liked_ the crude fellow immediately... he would have been in a lot of trouble if I hadn't arranged for his release. He wasn't particularly grateful, didn't really care what was going on, but he did give me the rest of his cactus-whiskey, which he called '_oosquai_.'

"_Disgusting_, but it hit the spot... the Foxes don't drink, except for _saidin _and _saidar_ of course, they seem to get quite drunk on that, in their own nasty way. The proto-_Aiel _savage kept calling me '_Foxmask_' and poking me with his finger, I don't think he believed I was really there, or that any of it was actually happening. Also, he made the most _stupid_ choice for his three wishes that you could possibly imagine!"

Chaime shifted impatiently, thinking about what he had asked the _Eelfinn _for those many years ago and touched the dagger-_ter'angreal _hanging about his neck. That had been one of his requests, just as the fox-mask had been one of Gwili's. "What does any of this have to do with your _ocarina?_" he demanded.

"Not a thing. Anyway, I thought I might as well make the small musical instrument that caused my downfall into a _ter'angreal_... to commemorate the occasion... I was pleased with how it turned out, attempted to duplicate it a couple of times in fact, but the others never came out quite right... but this one always worked perfectly, bending the light just so... I regret its loss. The Apprentice also, of course, even if he did steal my _ocarina_... I wonder what became of him? Where he ended up... or _when_..."

"Somewhere better than here, one would hope."

"Poor Kamlin, he was the first follower I lost... I brought seven Apprentices to the _stedding _with me, now I have three... and that's including Mitsora, who's not really even my 'prentice, so I suppose it's only two left now. Oh, I forgot that I Raised her. That was your Son's idea... I think that he was quite taken with her."

"I think that I am also, though regrettably much too old to _do _anything about it... I also think that you will have but _one_ Apprentice, soon enough, the quiet fellow who carries the lute about... that other, the younger man, her brother, he is clearly not... alright." Chaime smiled ruefully. 'Alright,' was the euphemism he and his Apprentices usually used, so placid a term for something so very frightening.

"No, he isn't. Poor boy."

"Why have you not severed him?"

"The shock would almost certainly kill him and he'd just lie down and die after, even if it didn't." Gwili sighed gustily. "Mitsora thinks she can Heal him."

"Love is blind."

"Yes it is. But the Ogier won't let anyone leave once they start to show the signs and Djonni has a fine voice and perfect pitch, though I wish Haltha hadn't given him that damned _drum_. Perhaps we'll have some music later?"

"I expect that we will, if _you_ have anything to do with it... as well as your 'prentice-minstrels who ape your fashions. I have always enjoyed the low music-hall theatre as much as have you, but am content to be part of the audience. You, on the other hand, would oft embarrass me by drunkenly invading the stage and _participating!_" Chaime shook his head with great disapproval. "Really, young Gwili, you would have been far more content as _troubadour_ than _Aes Sedai_."

"Oh, but Walrus Sedai, I have always considered myself to be _both!_"

* * *

><p><strong>Part II: Madness<strong>

After telling him his favourite story (which was, of course, _Gwili Under the Hill_) Mitsora Caal returned from sitting patiently beside her brother's bed until he slumbered deeply, though occasionally stirring and whimpering fitfully in his sleep, and watched Gwilim Sedai and the Lightborn awhile, from the vantage of a hidden path that twisted through the blueberry bushes.

The Great Trees loomed above, towering into a grey and cloudy night sky, a full moon occasionally piercing the misty layer with a silvery glow. All of the Ogier had gone to bed, even young Haltha, who had not been interested in the venison nor partaken of more than one cup of mead to be polite, but had said he enjoyed the music and had at least entered into the spirit of things to some extent, rising from his bench at one point to give them a Tree-song, blushing furiously whilst he sang the sonorous sounds, his hairy ears twitching.

Chulchun had accompanied the Ogier youth with a bard-harp, plucking dissonant chords that somehow melded with the unearthly song, and had then retrieved his beloved lute and wandered off into the trees without a word to anyone, strumming softly... he was definitely getting worse, he never spoke anymore. And Djonni had become overexcited, had to have the drum taken away from him and had been escorted to bed by his sister, complaining bitterly about the injustice of it all. Sometimes he was himself, only less so, at other times more like a child... an enormously dangerous child, should he ever be free to unleash his Power again. She would try to Heal him again, tomorrow.

Gwilim Sedai and the Lightborn were arguing, though in a good-natured fashion. They had both drunk quite a lot of mead and their voices were a little slurred. The _Aes Sedai_ was wearing his mask-_ter'angreal _atop his head, like a party-hat. Mitsora watched and listened from the shadows, feeling restless. Trying not to think about those voices in the darkness, the soft gusts against her face, in a place where there could not possibly be such phenomena as air-currents. Her brother experienced severe nightmares on most nights, but then, so did she. Differently terrifying dreams, caused by differing stimuli.

Mitsora wished she had not come here, but there had been no choice. Family came first and Djonni was all the family she had left. But she certainly wished she had not allowed Gwilim Sedai to talk her into assisting him with his insane scheme. Most of all, she wished that she had never stepped through the portal into his accursed Ways... before she returned thither she would sooner walk down into the valley of _Thakan'dar_ and present herself naked to the Myrddraal, for their sport. There was something in there, something that hated life, craved suffering and torment... but she had other plans for the night than nightmares and tore her mind from the dark place it had often dwelled since that incident in the Spiral, and focused instead upon the loud discourse of the two men standing beside the thick clay jars filled with glowing coals.

"Bad enough you mention dogs in your silly song at all, but _granting wishes?_ The only wish a filthy, smelly cur might grant to _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor _would be to take itself off to somewhere out of range of my eyes, ears and _especially_, nose, and to growl at someone _else _for a change!"

"You are pooch-prejudiced, nephew-mine. I had a wonderful dog as a boy, a faithful mastiff-mutt, we were inseparable and had many adventures together. 'Smiler' was his name and he never growled at anyone in his life, for he was very well-behaved and had been raised in the Leaf Way as are all good _Da'shain shae'en_... though he would probably have taken a bite out of _you_. Tell me, hound-hater, have you ever investigated _why_ it is that you detest all manner of dog-kind quite so much as you do? Or wondered at how you came to have so unreasoning a hatred for canines?"

"I have not. Excepting that they smell bad and do not seem to like me very much. Oh, and they are stupid. These seem good enough reasons to despise all dogs."

"Hmm... yes, insanity _definitely_ runs in the family. Well, I am having trouble keeping my eyes open... I'm for bed... I expect you will be gone with the dawn, Nephew, and I have always hated farewells, particularly during the War when the person I was farewelling was usually on their way off to do something dangerous and rarely returned... so I shan't say any goodbyes, I shall just say 'goodnight' instead... but give me a last hug – _gently now_, you muscle-bound mog-monster! – and then I'll be on my way off to dreamland-_ooff!_ Put me down!"

Mitsora stepped from the bushes and watched as the Lightborn carefully lowered the _Aes Sedai_ who had Grown the Ways to the ground. They slapped each other's backs, Gwilim Sedai pounding away with enthusiasm, the Lightborn patting him gently between the shoulder-blades. Then, her brother's Master turned away, wrenching himself from the embrace with an almost violent movement and strode into the darkness, pulling his fox-mask down over his face. He often wore the mask-_ter'angreal_ whilst he slept, he had told her, and dreamt strange dreams, saw surreal visions through eyes other than his own.

As Gwilim Sedai diminished into the night, his mellow, baritone voice echoed from the confines of the mask, a song in the High for a change, an old children's ballad he occasionally hummed softly while he worked, on those occasions when he was not belting-out something bawdy in the Low, a lot _less _softly. Djonni had told her that his Master had written _The Other Side_ for the fifth birthing-day celebration of the Dragon and the Lady Ilyena's youngest child...

"_The World Sea is so wondrous wide_

_you cannot see the other side_

_but one day we will catch a ride_

_upon a whale (I hate to sail)_

_and see the other side..._

_(if the whale's too slow we'll go by sho)_

_then see the other side..."_

The voice of Gwilim Sedai faded into the night. The Lightborn stood awhile, watching the darkness into which his 'uncle' had disappeared. He did not seem aware that she was there... Mitsora heard him make a snuffling noise and he rubbed at his eyes and nose, then sniffed again, less wetly this time, and turned his head. Shining cobalt eyes glistened in the gloom, the marble benches lit only by the red coals in the tall, clay jars. The full moon wafted fitful bands of pale light between the dark clouds. He looked at her, a small smile on his lips.

Mitsora walked toward the Lightborn, pretending to not notice as he pulled his gloves from his belt and slipped them back on with a deft, practiced double-motion that suggested he was long-accustomed to swiftly hiding his hands from others. She had already had a good look in any case, watching as the dark nails... well, _claws_, flew nimbly over the strings while he had played that last song in perfect time with Gwilim Sedai's rapid delivery. Well, the _first_ part of it at least, since it had ended so abruptly, music giving way to friendly argument. They were certainly off-putting, the claws, but not so much as the rumours had suggested... and there were _other _rumours, also. Mitsora had been curious about the Lightborn from the moment that she first saw him, months before, walking out of the woods with a corpse slung over his shoulder.

The Lightborn watched without speaking as she ceased her gliding approach a span from him. She was slightly taller than he. He smiled a little wider, his pointed teeth flashing in the glow of the coals. She took a deep breath;

"Hello, _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_."

"Hello. I thought that you had retired for the night, 'prentice Caal. Excuse me, I mean, _Aes Sedai_."

"Well, _exactly_. Why would your 'uncle' do that?"

"_Aes Sedai?_"

"Just before I took my brother away to his bed. He Raised me."

"Indeed, _Aes Sedai_." He put his hands over his Shield and bowed a bit.

"Cease prevaricating. Why would he suddenly do that?"

"It is not for _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ to speculate about such things," the Lightborn stated smoothly, as though he were _Da'shain_ and had spent the evening serving Gwilim Sedai drinks rather than being rudely insulted by and rudely insulting back the _Aes Sedai _who had so suddenly and surprisingly Raised her to full Sisterhood... a quick embrace and a '_you are well come Sister, the Hall has awaited you long_' hastily muttered into her ear in an ancient form of the High Chant, as was traditional.

Not that there _was_ a Hall to welcome her, anymore... not that being Raised really _changed_ anything. But she was _Aes Sedai_, now. That was something. The manner of her Raising irked her, however, as did the reasons behind it. The motivation. The Lightborn was looking innocent, pretending to find a leaf down by his booted feet of great interest...

Mitsora scowled. "Gwilim Sedai Raised me just as I was about to leave with Djonni, right _after_ you glared at him and made a growling sound in the back of your throat, _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_," she elaborated, pointedly.

"How peculiar. But the ways of _Aes Sedai_ are not for my..."

"Oh, stop it!"

"Stop what, _Aes Sedai?_ I am but a simple Shieldman who knows naught of such things..."

"You are insulting my intelligence, _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_. That is the part of me that I like to have insulted the very least."

"More so even than your hair, _Aes Sedai? _I have noticed that females can often be most insulting about each other's hair... yours looks very nice by the way, especially with that platinum paralis-net to set off the-"

"I place more value on what is _inside _my skull than that which adorns it."

"Oh? That is very well put, _Aes Sedai_, you have skill at turning a phrase-"

"Stop trying to change the subject with idle flattery, _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor!_ My Raising was clearly at _your_ instigation!"

"Oh..." the Lightborn looked uncomfortable, then scowled himself. The way his pupils narrowed to slits was alarming. Fascinating, also. "_Alright_, Mitsora Sedai!" he admitted, sulkily, "maybe I told Uncle – I mean Gwilim Sedai – that I thought you ready... he should have done it by now but never thinks of these things... you behaved with great aplomb when your brother tried to kill us. I am sorry that I had to hit him on the head like that, though... there is no permanent damage?"

Mitsora sighed, and indicated the golden belt snugged about her waist, beneath her cape. "I have a Well-_ter'angreal_... it was my mother's... I Healed Djonni when we were safely back in the _stedding_. What I _could _Heal, at least. The permanent damage to my brother's head... his _mind_... has not come at your hands, _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_, but at those of the vile Dark One."

"He _is_ vile. My Big Brother tried to kill the Dark One, it was his plan to end the War, but he did not succeed. I wish that he had, for then _Shai'tan _would be dead and Wan would be alive, not the other way around." The Lightborn shrugged. "But I am very sorry I had to do that. I tried to apologise to 'prentice Caal later, but he did not seem to remember the incident..." he looked uncomfortable, "...or who I was."

Mitsora sighed. She did not wish to discuss Djonni... "Well, I am sorry also, that I shouted... and slapped you. I lost control, I shall not do so again. I... well, I just feel rather protective, towards my brother..."

"Perfectly understandable... I hope you did not hurt your hand?"

Mitsora glanced down, shaking the fingers a little. It was still a bit sore. "I did actually, it was like hitting a tree." She smiled, ironically. "I might have struck you with a web of Air, but then, we both know that would avail me little."

"Unfortunately so. You should spare your hands and just hit me with a stick next time, _Aes Sedai_."

"I will think on it. Though there will _not_ be a next time, Djonni cannot be permitted to leave the _stedding _again... it is too dangerous..." She felt tears forming and blinked them back angrily, "I fear for him so..."

"You love him very much. That is only right. I loved my Brother very much, my Middle Brother, if someone had hit _him_ on the head... not that anyone would have dared, of course... well, if they had, I would probably have been angry also, I would have slapped _them_... or scratched them, even..."

"I saw your brother, once..." Mitsora shivered slightly.

"Oh dear! I have seen _that _look before... he was doing something horrible, wasn't he?" The Lightborn chuckled softly, shaking his head a little.

Mitsora nodded. "I only saw him briefly, I was up in the turret as our convoy rolled past, he was pointed out to me by a Warman Officer... he..." she swallowed, "he had nailed a captured Myrddraal to the door of a barn and was flogging it to death. A company of Warmen were watching. He wore a dark band like yours, though not about his brow but lower down, over his... eyes... he was stripped to the waist, with long, white hair hanging about his shoulders, he had a good physique... I remember thinking that he would have been quite attractive, had he not been... who he was... he was smiling while he was doing it, a surprisingly pleasant smile..." she blinked, "oh, and he was not using a whip, but a length of heavy, barbed chain."

"Yes, Taw used to do that a lot, for relaxation and recreation, it is why the Warmen named him 'Shadow-Scourger.' " The Lightborn's smile of pleasant reminiscence became sadder. "Well, he is gone now, I am the last... and when I am gone also, there will be no more monsters that serve the Light, only the ones that serve the Shadow." He shrugged. "As for your Raising, the world needs all the _Aes Sedai_ it can get... but Uncle forgot about it, of course, which was why I had to remind him. It was not a growl though, it was more of a snarl. There is a subtle difference between the two sounds, I would be happy to demonstrate?"

"That will not be necessary. Tell me, _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_, do you often interfere in the affairs of those whom you ostensibly serve?"

"Well... it is less interference, more an inability to mind my own business..."

Mitsora chuckled softly and the Lightborn grinned, baring his pointy teeth as he made that odd, mewling sound that was his version of laughter. It served to remind her – though the eyes that were shining eerily on the far side of the glowing coals as well as the other accoutrements of the Lightborn, were unlikely to let her forget – that he was not really human. But then, her friend from the Academy who knew him better than most had already made this point to her, as well as several others concerning him. Clearly, Kiam was a little bit obsessed. Understandable, though. He _was _intriguing...

The Lightborn bowed formally, hands over Shield. "Honour to serve, _Aes Sedai_. And excuse me if I overstepped my bounds."

"By all accounts, you have been doing that ever since you were born. Born in the Light." He nodded, looking pleased, and they sat down on marble benches, close enough for conversation without any forced sense of intimacy.

"We have met before, _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_, several months ago, now. Though you do not recall..?" Mitsora was a little annoyed that he did not seem to.

The Lightborn blinked at her and his eyelids flickered for a moment... she was not sure what he was doing, but suddenly each cobalt iris seemed to light up and he grinned alarmingly. "At the medical bunker, after I brought Auldre back! You had the cowl of your cloak up over your head, or I would have recognised you sooner... people look different when it is just the face and you cannot see their hair... you were standing next to the scowling 'prentice who did not like me. _Knew_ I had seen you somewhere before, Apprentice Ca- I mean, Mitsora Sedai... if I may call you that..?"

"Oh, since it is _you_ I seemingly have to thank for the fact that I am no longer a mere Apprentice but now hold the illustrious rank of _Aes Sedai_, you may certainly feel free to use my name, _Sin'aeth_-"

"Shieldman is fine, Mitsora Sedai. It does not take so long to say."

"I hear that you prefer _N'aethan?_"

"If you like." He sighed. "The Mother always called me that..."

"_Shadar Nor_ was an admirable woman, a strong Tamyrlin... I respected her greatly. My condolences for your loss... I know that you and she were..." Mitsora was not sure how to put it. Kiam said he had been as much a son to her as a bodyguard.

The Lightborn shrugged, as though the Mother's death was of no great account, though a brief wave of desolation seemed to pass over his grim features. "Spent many years as Latra Sedai's Shieldman... I often wake and find myself surprised that I am not at the foot of her bed, that she is not there."

"It will ease, with time. I know that must seem unlikely to you now, but it will. I shall address you as 'N'aethan' also, if I might..." Mitsora frowned slightly, "...though if you expect me to thank you for having me Raised, which was indeed none of your business, then you shall be disappointed."

"_Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ is used to disappointment..." he sighed, then grinned; "yes, of course, the hair! I remember you now! You made remarks to the other 'prentice, though since I was arguing with your friend about the pyre, I did not-"

"_Friend?_ Azille is no friend of mine. She does not _have _any friends, only those she imagines will be of use to her, to whom she is slightly _less_ rude. I do not have many friends either, but in my case, it is by _choice_." Mitsora smiled. "Though I did have a sort-of friend, at the Academy, we were Initiates together... perhaps you might know her? She has often mentioned you in her infrequent messages... I am never quite sure whether she likes you or loathes you... a little of both, perhaps?"

The Lightborn blinked. Then grinned wider. "Kiam Sedai! _You _are Mitsy! That friend of Kiam's from the Academy... she has spoken of you and always names you 'Mitsy' rather than 'Mitsora.' " He smirked; "Mitsy Sedai, I mean."

Mitsora frowned. She had never cared for being called _that_, with or without the 'Sedai.' "Do not be insolent, _Atha'an Allein_. I have a Well and can maintain eight flows of Air at once... and there are plenty of branches hereabouts, with which to beat you."

"So there are. Sorry! It would be like being birched by an angry octopus, perhaps? Hmm. You are much like Kiam Sedai in some ways, Mitsora Sedai..."

"I shall take that as a compliment, though probably it is not. But you are correct, we _do_ have certain traits in common. We were not the best of friends exactly, but more gravitated toward each other through a mutual dislike for the company of our fellow Initiates... Kiam and I were quite close at times, drifted apart at others..."

"You certainly do remind me of her a little, Mitsora Sedai."

"Oh, call me Mitsora, if you like. Just don't call me the _other_ thing. I cannot _believe_ Kiam still uses that childish diminutive... she only ever did to goad me..."

"Seems to have worked, Mitsora Sedai. Though perhaps she was not goading? Kiam Sedai always speaks of you with affection, of some of the things you did as young Initiates... she told me of an occasion where you put a _uecha_ in the bed of a girl whom you did not like..?"

"Oh, _that_... she was horrid, she deserved it, she was always snitching on us to the Instructors and getting us sent for penance over the slightest infraction..."

"I am sure that she deserved it, I do not like snitches either, but even so... a _uecha?_ With the pincers and the mandibles... and the..."

"We removed the stinger so that it could not seriously harm her! Not _physically_, at least... not too much... I take your point, though, I know it seems a little over the top... but it was Kiam's idea, she always did take things too far." Mitsora shrugged. "I would have been content to have just left some mice in there."

The Lightborn scowled darkly. "I would not like to find a mouse in _my _bed, would prefer the _uecha_ with or without the stinger... I am immune to most naturally occurring poisons, anyway..."

"Frogs, then. Well, we both got into terrible trouble, though I suppose it was worth it to hear that obnoxious girl shrieking so loudly... Kiam can be rather ruthless with her enemies."

"Oh, I have noticed!"

"So she recalls me with affection? That is touching..."

"Well, Kiam Sedai is not very affectionate, as I am sure you know, but there are those she detests less than others. I am at the top of her detestation list, naturally!"

"You misjudge Kiam, she is cold at times, certainly, but capable of surprising warmth... she was very patient and caring with Djonni, on the occasion they met."

"Oh, I have seen her with the _Da'shain_ children, she used to tell them stories sometimes, I am just being uncharitable since _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor _has always been Kiam Sedai's favourite whipping-boy! _Ou'ch!_"

Mitsora wished that she had not mentioned Djonni, and her eyes took on a troubled cast. Being cut off from the Source was killing him as surely as _saidin _would drive him insane should he ever seize it again... she was watching her own brother, caught behind the bars of a cage, pining away, longing to fly free... and it was killing her also, to see it and be able to do nothing... she sighed.

"You worry about your brother, Mitsora Sedai? The Wheel wills. He has a pleasant voice, I enjoyed his singing..." the Lightborn frowned, "...though not so much the drumming."

"Djonni does sing sweetly. But I do not wish to speak of my brother this night... on the morrow will I care for him, I shall attempt Healing again, though I fear the Taint is strongly within him and doing so always causes him extreme anxiety..."

"_Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ must confess to feeling a little anxious himself, when the earth began to shake and tremble about us..."

"Which is why Djonni cannot leave this place. Gwilim Sedai was barely able to hold the Shield, even with the link and the _sa'angreal_... breaking Shields is something of a Talent with him, and my brother has always been strong in the Power, as have I... but if what is dark and tainted within him can be Healed, then I shall find a way." Mitsora raised her head, composing herself firmly. "But that is tomorrow. Tonight, I wish to be selfish... to do what _I_ want to do."

Mitsora had always believed that when it came to the delicate matter of arranging liaisons, being forthright with a man saved a lot of time that might otherwise have been wasted upon flirtation and suggestive behaviour... time better spent engaged in other activities. It was only logical, after all.

The Lightborn interested Mitsora, had done ever since the day she and Azille had been set to guard the medical bunker and had encountered him. She had just received word that Djonni, missing and presumed dead since the destruction of his Guardian-shielded internment camp, had somehow escaped the slaughter and had stood 'prentice to a new Master, following him to a _stedding_. An _Aes Sedai _widely considered insane, if not from the Taint. The famous one, from the children's story.

On that day, a state of emergency had been declared throughout the length of the Buffer Zone, sirens blaring in the distance, panic on the faces of evacuees waiting their turn to scramble into jumpers and heavy hoverflies, though there were few enough available and most were fleeing on foot. Three Companions were coming south at once. They had smashed a hole through the Northborder perimeter and combined their Power to destroy the great Keystone Fortress before going their separate ways, leaving a trail of death in their wake. All units in their path had been alerted.

Only two Apprentices could be spared to guard that particular medical bunker, when once the idea of anyone not fully Raised to Sisterhood being put in such terrible danger would have been anathema... but these were desperate times, desertion was rife, the lines between _Aes Sedai _and 'prentice blurring as tradition gave way to necessity. With the forces of Light so sorely depleted, often anyone available who could channel was sent to the fighting, and even Initiates had fallen in battle... though there were few enough of them, these days. The Academy had been destroyed in the War, and never rebuilt. In this case, the two young 'prentices were stationed at the southern edge of the Forest of Herereh, when word came that a Companion was approaching.

_A lone Warman scout had returned, more dead than alive, in a battered, smoking hoverfly, somehow piloting it into a landing that would have become a fatal collision with the wall of the medical bunker had Mitsora not intervened with a cushioning web of Air. Auldre Choal had cooked the rest of his squad in their skins, leaving the scout for dead. _

_While she was Restoring him, the scorched Warman stoically reported to Mitsora that the Madman, the ex-Companion to the Dragon, was last seen heading directly toward the bunker they had been set to protect. The walking-wounded had been evacuated, but there were still several Warmen too badly injured to move, too badly nerve-gassed in a Renegade ambush to Heal, until they had responded to stabilising treatment... and besides, the Da'shain medical staff flatly refused to leave while one patient remained beneath their care, despite Azille's angry commands that they evacuate also. The Aiel medics knew the difference between an Aes Sedai and an Apprentice, so they just smiled patiently and apologised politely until the red-faced Azille stalked away. _

_Azille Narof did not care for men any more than Kiam did (though this was about all they had in common) but even she would not leave the injured Warmen to the non-existent mercy of a Companion. So, the two of them stood outside the bunker, watching the trees to the north nervously, their Warman platoon holding formation around them with stony faces and levelled shocklances. And Mitsora had fidgeted with the small statuette of a cloaked and cowled woman with hands pressed together, __her soldier's angreal that had been made for her as a gift by Kiam, made in her own likeness... while waiting for death to come claim them all. _

_Nothing happened for some time, though they heard plenty of noise echoing from the forest, the occasional bright flare of flame rising high into the air or the roar of fiery destruction... high-explosive solutions would rain down into the trees from time to time, the artillery strikes Azille was sporadically calling-in. They could not reach Headquarters, but she had managed to use her call-ring to contact a heavy battery situated on a hill to the south, and was ordering them to fire at intervals. _

_Mitsora had told her not to, since they were uncertain whether there were still friendly forces in the forest, but had been ignored. Azille had wished to send the Warmen out on patrol to find out what was going on, but Mitsora had managed to overrule her on this occasion, since she regretted the dead scouts and had no wish to send any more men to their deaths. Azille had not given way with good grace. This was neither their first nor last argument of the day. _

_The Forest of Herereh held one of the very last Seeing Spires, most of which had been destroyed in the War... a lacy, crystalline construction towering from the grove at the centre, where audiences had once watched images of bygone days projected by the glowing spire, the long-dead 'ghosts' of people from a happier, more innocent time, singing and dancing and- a larger than usual explosion and the towering spire began to tip slowly to one side with inexorable momentum. Mitsora expected it to crash into the trees, but it abruptly stopped, leaning at an angle, and stayed that way. Perhaps it would remain thus for a thousand years or more? _

_A hint of movement in the shadows beneath the trees, a motion-sensor chimed warningly, then went dead. Someone approaching. The Warmen raised their shocklances in futile fashion, and Azille and Mitsora each embraced saidar through their angreal and prepared for a battle which would probably be a very _brief _battle. _

_Auldre Choal was not one of the more powerful Companions, but he was still a _Companion_... only the strongest and most martially-adept of the War-Brothers would have been considered for this illustrious band, so it was likely that Auldre would be able to tie them in knots without really trying. Mitsora and Azille had already agreed to not link, so as to create two independent targets for their adversary. That way, one of them might do him harm while he was focused upon killing the other... though he would probably just kill them both at the same time. They had also not linked because they detested each other, had no wish to share that intimate connection between Sisters that existed within a Circle. Neither had come right out and said this, but it was fully understood, even so. Besides, they would never have been able to agree on who would spin the webs and who would not. _

_Reinforcements had been sent for on foot, an Ogier soldier with a freshly-Healed stump where his forearm used to be, racing off down the road to alert Headquarters, since long-distance communications were down, as they so often were in these days of failing technology. Though help would not come in time to save them, it seemed, since a lone figure appeared amongst the trees, approaching steadily, walking towards them. Companions always walked everywhere. They were known for it... _

"_Well, this is it," muttered Azille, her usually dulcet voice rasping a little. Her green-eyed gaze on the man coming to kill them was steady, though. Mitsora loathed the slight, auburn-haired young woman standing beside her, but could not help but grudgingly admire her bravery. Azille was delicate as a porcelain doll to look upon, but looks could be deceiving. She certainly had courage, if not manners. Or perhaps she was just too stupid to be scared? No, she was terrified, they both were, it was just that Azille was slightly better at hiding it. _

"_I do not think that is Auldre Choal," Mitsora murmured, squinting. _

_The approaching man was swathed in fancloth... another scout, perhaps? Clearly not a Companion, since they were more usually clothed in filthy rags. Mitsora felt relief at this, and hoped that it was not premature. Auldre was still out there in the forest somewhere, after all... The scout was limping slightly, carrying something large wrapped in a cloak, thrown over his broad shoulder. He paused at the tree-line, eyeing the shocklances aimed at him with disfavour, the Apprentices scarcely less so. He had strange eyes. _

"_Point those elsewhere, Warmen!" he shouted, "are you planning on shooting Sin'aethan Shadar Cor? He has already been shelled, so why not shock him also?"_

_The Warmen looked almost contrite as their Sergeant waved for them to lower their weapons. "Apologies, Gholam Killer," he shouted back, "we thought you the Companion."_

_The Lightborn laughed an odd, mewling laugh as he approached. "Flattering! When I was a boy, I longed to be a Companion..." he paused a few spans away and shook his head, hefting the burden further over his shoulder. The burden was wearing a scuffed pair of boots. "I suppose I have grown out of that particular dream," he observed, dryly. _

_Before resuming her habitual scowl, Azille had glared at the Warman Sergeant for giving the order to lower the shocklances without looking to her first. But they were only Apprentices, so while ostensibly in charge, they both knew that the grizzled Sergeant with thirty year's experience of war along the Northborder was definitely the one giving the orders to his men. Warmen knew the difference between Aes Sedai and Apprentice as well as did the Da'shain. _

_The Lightborn was shorter than Mitsora would have thought, given the stories. He dumped the cloak-wrapped corpse to the ground before them and stood over it proudly, like a barn-cat that had just dropped a dead rat at the farmer's feet. His cadin'gai was torn and burned in places, his fancloth ripped and scorched, smudges of soot and blood on his face. He was looking very pleased with himself, she noted. _

"_Who is that?" Azille demanded, "one of the scouts?"_

_The Lightborn shook his head and waved at the body as though introducing them. "Auldre Choal, once-Companion to the Dragon."_

"_You killed him?" Azille enquired, with some suspicion, looking on the Lightborn with even more distaste than that she usually reserved for males._

"_Eventually. Had to find him first! Followed the corpses but then he went into the woods and started wandering around in circles, destroying things... pity about the Seeing Spire, though mayhap it still functions? I did not understand the aimless meandering of Auldre, thought it was a trap, though it did not make sense... but then I remembered that he was completely crazy, so of course it would not! So I attacked. Had to wait for him to wear himself out trying to kill me, but got him in the end. Would have preferred it if the trees had not been exploding around my ears, though. Hard to concentrate." _

_The Lightborn swayed a bit, then knuckled his back, groaning. It was impossible to say if the blood on his face and clothing was his own or his opponent's. Both, perhaps. The Lightborn frowned. "Who called in the strikes? Whose bright idea was it to shell the forest?" He scowled alarmingly. _

"_Mine," stated Azille, scowling back, though she could not accomplish the disconcerting pupil-slitting. Mitsora suspected that she wished she could. _

"_I have got shrapnel and splinters in my leg," the Lightborn told Azille with a slight sneer, then bowed mockingly. "Honour to bleed, Apprentice," he murmured. _

_Mitsora hid a smile behind the edge of her cowl. Azille was not smiling. _

_As he straightened, the Lightborn winced, rubbing at his side. "Are you wounded elsewhere?" Mitsora beckoned over a Da'shain medic and the tall, red-haired man began to check the Lightborn over while he flinched and grumbled. _

"_Please to stand still, Nightwatcher," the Aiel in the green surgical cadin'sor murmured softly, pressing and poking at his chest, "does this hurt?"_

"_Yes, of course, everything hurts. Just give me some pills, good Da'shain, I will make it back to the Keystone. Oh, I forgot, it is not there anymore... hmm..." he grinned, "... is there an hotel around here? A nice one, with an arboretum and a holotarium?" _

_The Da'shain smiled gently. "They have all been destroyed, Vron'cor." _

"_What hasn't been? Well, I am sure that I can find a barn somewhere... it looks as though it might rain..." the Lightborn frowned up at the sky, then winced again, rubbing his neck. He eyed the Aiel medic expectantly and extended a gloved palm like a child demanding sweets. "Pills, please!"_

_His Da'shain doctor sighed patiently while he continued to deftly prod and push. "Very well, Vron'cor, but it would be better were you to come into the bunker and lay down on an examination couch, in addition to the leg you have cracked ribs and there may be internal injuries..." _

"_I do not like those places, they smell bad! Cease your fussing, Da'shain!"_

_The Aiel did not take offence – well, they never did – but dutifully ceased his fussing, handing the Lightborn a large blue pill. "Only one?" he complained. _

"_Only one, Nightwatcher," the Aiel affirmed, "they are very strong." He gave the Warmen a glance of mild disapproval, bowed low to the Apprentices and slightly lower to the Lightborn, who did not notice as he was engaged in tossing the pill high into the air and catching it in his mouth... then, the medic left on silent feet. _

_Mitsora made to pull back the cloak shrouding the body, but a gloved hand gently tugged the fold of dirty, blood-stained silk from her grip and tucked it back in to place. "He is not a pretty sight, Apprentice." The unpleasant smell arising from the make-shift shroud was not pretty either. The Lightborn had an odd, husky tone to his speech, she noted. _

"_Warman Sergeant. Deploy flame-tubes and dispose of the enemy corpse." Azille Narof's voice was cold. The Sergeant eyed the Lightborn, who scowled. _

"_He should have a pyre," the Lightborn stated, firmly. _

_Azille's lip curled. "He does not deserve one... none of these Madmen do."_

"_It is their fault that they are mad, 'prentice Shrapnel? I thought it the Dark One's blame..." the Lightborn turned from Azille's glare with ill-disguised contempt, regarding the Warman Sergeant, who straightened a little. "Sergeant, assemble wood and melt-fuel if you please, that we may honour a dead Hero."_

"_It will be done as you say, Gholam Killer." _

_Azille scowled at the Warmen as they set about following the orders of the interloper. "Hero?" she snarled._

"_He once was, honoured Apprentice-of-Artillery, a Hero of the Light, like my Brothers were. We will burn the body of the man he was, not the madman that the Taint reduced him to." The Lightborn shrugged, continuing to talk to Azille though she had half turned her back on him and was gazing disdainfully at the trees, as though he were not there. Mitsora listened intently. "I saw him once, Auldre Choal, when I was a boy... he came to the Collam Aman with the other Companions, to protect his Dragon and the Lady Ilyena from the monsters that lived downstairs..." the Lightborn bared his teeth at Azille a little. "He seemed like a nice fellow... and he was clearly as in love with the Lady Sunhair as I also clearly was! We _all _were..."_

_Azille growled, and stalked away. She hissed a word under her breath as she did so, and the Lightborn grinned. He must have good hearing, Mitsora was not sure which word it had been, only that it had begun with an 'A.' _

"_Abomination!" muttered the Lightborn, "I have not heard that one in quite a while." His eyes followed Azille musingly as she headed up to the flight deck of the armoured jumper, squatting on its landing gear nearby. A command post was all it was good for, the jumper had not left the ground in quite a while and probably never would. Spare parts were few and far between, since the people who had once made them were currently either rotting corpses or starving refugees. "It is a pity," the Lightborn further remarked, speaking to himself presumably, "if she did not scowl so much, she would be quite beautiful... in a doll-like sort of way..."_

_Azille was too far away to have heard this, fortunately, and gave the Lightborn a last spiteful stare before disappearing from sight. _

"_Hmm, she does not like me, it would seem," the Lightborn pondered._

"_Azille doesn't like anyone," Mitsora murmured, staring at the pyre being swiftly constructed by the Warmen. "The scowl is permanent, she probably even scowls when she's asleep." Her eyes moved back to the shrouded corpse. "Was it hard, to kill him? I imagine it cannot have been easy..."_

"_Oh, very hard, until the end. Then Auldre seemed to come back to himself, became almost lucid, he was weeping and repeating a woman's name, over and over... Tichuan, Tishuan, something like that... his wife, I think she was..." The Lightborn shrugged, frowning. "I killed him. Had to. Apart from what he and the others did at the border, he destroyed three towns and another medical bunker out east, and did worse, further north. I put him out of his misery. But I did not enjoy having to do it. I was made to destroy Shadow-wrought, not Heroes of the Light, however psychotic they might be." He sighed, watching as the Warmen lifted the shrouded body onto the pyre. "I suppose someone should say something..?" _

_But no-one did, so after the Warmen had fired a volley into the air, the only time that day they had been required to discharge their shocklances, Mitsora Caal narrowed her eyes and channelled a thin web of Fire into the fuel-soaked wood which sprang aflame, burning briskly. After which, the pyre containing the mortal remains of Auldre Choal, Companion, was rapidly reduced to grey ash, his body also. And that was not all. The Lightborn turned from regarding the pyre moodily, sniffing. "Tsag! The forest is on fire! Fetch buckets!" _

_After he and the Warmen had retreated from the unquenchable flames, the now even-sootier Lightborn whined at the Da'shain doctor until another of the blue pills was reluctantly dispensed, an Aiel-red head disapprovingly shaken as it was swallowed with a naughty schoolboy grin and he then limped away down the road singing softly to himself in the Song-Tongue. With the exception of the Da'shain medics, who all made a point of embracing or kissing him while he squirmed impatiently, he had not troubled to bid anyone farewell. Mitsora watched the Lightborn until he was out of sight. He had not looked at her once. He had been surprisingly human._

"So you are friends with Kiam Sedai? You say you are close?"

The Lightborn was clearly fishing for information. For all that the two of them would not be sharing a bed anytime soon, from what she had seen, Mitsora thought that he and Kiam were somewhat obsessed with each other, as close as lovers, in some ways... though 'loathers' might be a more apt description. She always annoyed him by beating him at _tcheran_, apparently. Mitsora had given her a game once, when she was bored... Kiam had been angered with the ease of her defeat, and had never suggested a rematch. The Dark One clearly resented losing... Mitsora supposed that having seven Talents (including an incredibly rare Talent) as well as being a child prodigy, inclined Kiam toward being a sore loser also... well, she would bite the hook on this occasion.

"I was close with Kiam once and still am, at times. We are much alike in how we order our thoughts, though different in many other ways. Incompatible, even." Mitsora cast her own line, though it was not for information that _she _fished. "For example, Kiam chooses to be... _close_, only with other females. Whereas I have never seen the value of limiting my... _closeness_."

Mitsora slipped her silvery rain-lace cape from bare shoulders and rose from the marble bench. The Lightborn looked up at her as she approached, his gloved hands resting on his thighs. His cobalt eyes widened a little as her streith gown, currently a deep amber, caught the light... he had just noted that before returning from the chambers she shared with her brother, that in addition to arranging the thin chains of her paralis-net neatly amongst her dark, nape-length curls, Mitsora had removed streith and silken under-gown both and had then clad herself in thinner streith, beneath which she was quite bare. Her wide, golden belt served to accentuate the slimness of her waist, the curve of her hips. His pupils expanded at the sight of her slender silhouette as she paused before him. Posed, even.

Mitsora smiled at the Lightborn's stare. The desired effect, for all that it had taken him long enough to _notice! _The opacity of the shoulder-less streith gown (her favourite) faded as the colour shifted to a very pale blue with orange striations, a dawn sky as the sun begins to touch it. Mitsora ran a caressing hand over the top of his skull, above the black band stretched about his brow, the short hair of the same pale hue as the thick, expressive eyebrows that were currently raised enquiringly... the closely-cropped stubble looked bristly, but was very soft.

"You have silky hair, N'aethan... a pity you do not grow it longer... you are clearly no Warman, despite your battle-tonsure, your _cadin'gai_."

"How so?"

"Because you wept a little after you bid farewell to Gwilim Sedai. I have never seen a Warman do _that_."

The Lightborn grinned up at the _Aes Sedai _who was stroking his head. "I was not weeping... damned pollen, this _stedding _is crawling with it... hay-fever, Mitsora Sedai. I was glad to see the back of Uncle Gwili, he is a rude man and an ear-puller!"

Mitsora smiled a mildly exasperated smile. "Kiam would not agree perhaps, but in my opinion, based upon the evidence, you are clearly a man, N'aethan. I have certainly never encountered one of your sex who was prepared to admit that he had been _crying!_" He snorted with amusement whilst she smoothed the hair back from his brow and his eyes slitted a little, a soft noise in the back of his throat, like a purr. Well, to be honest, it _was _a purr...

"Very fine, your hair," Mitsora further observed, her voice catching a little.

"I used to wear it long, but it got in the way. Nearly got me killed by a grey man, one time." The Lightborn sighed, his softly glowing eyes holding hers. "_Aes Sedai_, whilst I appreciate a good stroking as much as the next cat-demon, I feel I should point out that it is not actually _hair_, it is _fur_, because I am not human, I am a _Construct_. A forbidden biological hybrid, an unauthorised _chu'mira_." He smiled slightly savagely, and she restrained the urge to snatch her hand back. "Think of me as a short Beastman who serves the Light and occasionally takes baths." He grinned.

"Middle Brother (who as you know, was a Shadowman who served the Light) used to say 'Monstruct' instead of Construct. But then, he always relished being feared, whereas I never have. I always preferred to be respected, or failing that, admired... who knows, _liked _even." He shrugged. "Other Sisters have not let this questionable heritage deter them from seeking liaison with _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_, but I always think it best to explain this to them before any... closeness ensues."

"An explanation is unnecessary, for I have studied your 'heritage' in some detail and do not find it questionable in the least... laudatory even. While much about you remains uncertain, I have concluded that you are no Beastman, N'aethan. I thank you for your consideration, though. Tell me, do you favour liaison with _Aes Sedai? _I have heard that you do, on occasion?" Mitsora continued to stroke, leaning against his leg a little, whilst he in turn continued to purr softly... though did not take the opportunity to pull her down onto his lap, which he might well have. But he did not.

"I expect that you have heard all sorts of strange things..." The Lightborn grinned. "Women are such _gossips_, they _always _kiss and tell, _Aes Sedai _are the worst of all!" He raised a gloved hand, taking her slim wrist and brushing his lips against her knuckles in what would have been an oddly old-fashioned, courtly gesture, but for the evident enjoyment he took in sniffing her skin. "And when it comes to the Sisters, it tends to be what _they_ favour that applies..." he muttered.

The Lightborn made to stand, and she took her hand away more abruptly than she had planned to. She was tall for a woman, and more than met his eyes when he rose, though they were burning a little now, with anger or something else, and it was quite difficult to hold that stare without blinking. His voice became huskier as he slid his hands slowly up her bare arms.

"But I am certainly in favour of liaison... of _closeness_, Mitsora Sedai. In these dark times, it is good to be close with others, to give and receive comfort."

Mitsora nodded coolly, as he massaged her shoulders, trying to ignore the sensations his touch was provoking within her. For now. There were practical considerations to discuss first. "I could not agree more, N'aethan. We cannot return to my chambers for fear of waking my brother. Haltha told me that your allocated room is nearby, beneath that elm..." she brushed her cheek against one of his gloved hands, regarding him expectantly.

"The Treebrothers gave me a room? I told them they did not need to..."

"The _Alantin ti Avende_ are hospitable. They have been good to my brother, patient with him. I hope these Ways prove of use to the Ogier, I should like to repay them for their kindness to Djonni..." Mitsora frowned, and shivered a little, "though I think this 'gift' of the Master a poisoned chalice." She composed herself, sliding her hands over his, holding them against her shoulders, continuing briskly; "my preference is to sleep alone, usually... but not tonight. You will perhaps find a bed more comfortable than being curled up outside, by these coals?"

"I will not, as a matter of fact..." he smiled "...but I do not intend to sleep."

Mitsora raised her dark, delicate brows, unsure whether he was being salacious or simply literal. The Lightborn gently retrieved his hands from beneath hers, dipped two fingers into a pouch at the front of his belt, and drew out something round and golden. He passed it to her. It was a delicate ring, the Eternal Serpent, biting its own tail. A woman's ring, not a man's.

"Here, Mitsora Sedai... for you. Since you are now Raised. I took it from the cold finger of an _Aes Sedai_... I was going to return it to the War-Sisters but after a week stuck in the stinking infirmary covered in bandages and ointment, forgot all about it. Forgot about _everything_, just wanted to escape from the smell of death and the _Da'shain _nurses who were trying to kill me with kindness! I found it at the bottom of my physic-pack the other day... the Sister who wore this, I did not know her name, but she was very brave and stood her ground, I was sorry I could not get there in time to Shield her from the Companion Goaeur Rantoel, though I avenged her... eventually..." the Lightborn shook his head disapprovingly, "...Goaeur was _much_ worse than Auldre... and he wouldn't stop _laughing! _Even when I... well, you are courageous also, Mitsora Sedai, she would want you to have it, I think..."

Mitsora took the ring, but did not put it on her finger, turning it over in her hand, using it as an excuse to not meet his eye. "Courageous?" she murmured, "while I waited for Auldre Choal to come and kill us, I nearly wept with fright."

"But you waited and did not flee. Everyone is scared... I was scared when I fought the Gholam... sometimes I wonder, if I met another Gholam, would I go through that again? I was younger and wilder when I killed it, more animal than man... that was what kept me alive and at the end I think I saw fear in the Gholam's eyes too... though perhaps not. But now, I do not know. Perhaps I would flee? Bravery lies in conquering fear, not ignoring it. You deserve it, Mitsora Sedai... you did your duty on that day."

"I do not deserve it, I am unworthy of the Ring." Mitsora raised her gaze angrily, sudden tears in her eyes. "What know you of my duty? I am a _deserter!_"

_The forest was burning fiercely, but the southerly wind was strong, sweeping the consuming flames in the other direction, a distant glow in the night. If the wind changed, however... though Azille could always change it back... well, they might as well stay here until the morning. There was nowhere else to go, anyway. _

_After watching the limping Lightborn disappear into the gloom of approaching evening, Mitsora Caal walked past the smouldering pyre and went up into the armoured-jumper, ascending the gantry to the cockpit where Azille Narof was moodily occupying one of the battered flight-seats, her small, booted feet propped up on the console. This had been partially disassembled; panels removed, crystalline circuits scattered about, light-cables spilling down to the battered deck... No, _this_ jumper would most probably not be flying ever again, especially given Azille's ill-considered attempts to fix it... while it was mostly battle-damage, some of the destruction up here had been perpetrated by the angry and technically-challenged 'prentice in her frustration, making it further unlikely that this vehicle would ever soar into the sky. Unsurprisingly, Azille was scowling. She eyed Mitsora, and reduced the scowl to a frown. _

_Mitsora smiled sweetly. "The scary and sarcastic Lightborn has departed now, so it is safe for you to emerge, dear Azille."_

_Azille's frown shifted back to the dark scowl. "Filthy feline freak..." she muttered, then eyed her narrowly. "Well, Mitsora? Are you here to exercise your meagre wit, or have you decided? The events of today have certainly decided _me_."_

_Mitsora nodded. "I have made my decision. The same decision as you." She sighed. "It pains me to make this choice, but enough is enough. We are amongst the last of the adept left up here, but for the fanatics who will not listen to reason."_

_Azille nodded back. "Good. I detest you as much as you me, and I am still angry about the uecha in my bed, even after all these years..." her scowl darkened, but then oddly, diminished a little, passing frown stage 'til it reached mild irritation, which Mitsora had known Azille long enough (too long) to recognise as her version of a smile... Mitsora had only ever seen Azille smile once, or she would have doubted that she could..._

_It had been at the Academy, on that occasion when Kiam had flown too low over a prototype warding-ter'angreal that was being tested out in the gardens, and as the True Source vanished from her, had fallen screaming from the sky. Yes, _that_ had certainly made Azille smile. Fortunately, Kiam had landed in an ornamental pond so that at least injury had not been added to humiliation. It had been a surprisingly jolly smile, and Azille had even chuckled a bit and slapped her thigh. But now, the almost placid slight furrowing of her brow revealed that Azille wanted something... she always temporarily ceased her scowls when she did. _

"_I need you as much as you me," Azille grudgingly allowed, "two will have a better chance than one on the way south." _

_Mitsora ignored this gambit for the time being, her face calm, but smiled on the inside. "Word came, Azille... the long-distance communications were functioning perfectly for once, the reason that we could not contact Headquarters is that regrettably, Headquarters is no longer there... some sort of a volcano is now, apparently. The Companion, Mynar Thuu, was sighted in the vicinity, before the surveillance crystals went dead." _

"_Madmen!" Azille had a rather foul mouth, she hailed from M'Jinn, whose citizens had always been noted for their colourful language, even before the city went over to the Shadow – though of course, the M'Jinnese were not much noted for anything anymore, since those not dead were scattered refugees, like everyone else – but she always managed to pronounce this particular word as though it were the vilest of slurs, worse even than the other curse-words she often employed. _

"_South?" Mitsora enquired, without much interest, thinking about the satisfying shrieks of disgust and terror that had emerged from Azille's bedchamber... _

_"Of course. That is where everyone else is fleeing. It's scarcely any better down there, but at least it is further from the Blight and the Blasted Lands." There were still quite a few Companions up there... at least they had not all decided to come south at once... though more were, every day. "We shall go to the Great Stone."_

_Mitsora frowned. It seemed that Azille had it all planned out. "Three Companions destroyed the Keystone, upon which the construction of the Stone was based... do you think that you will be safe there?"_

_Azille frowned back. "Of course not, though the Stone is larger and more strongly fortified, by all accounts... besides, I do not go there for safety..." _

"_There is no such thing anymore, after all."_

_Azille's lip curled with contempt, "I am sure that you shall feel safer down there, Mitsora... but I recall my duty, I go to the Stone because that is where certain Sisters are gathering... I wish to join their ranks." _

"_The Blood Ajah, I would presume?"_

"_Yes..." Azille smiled nastily, "they do not believe in coddling these Madmen, if they will not stay in their stedding or the camps then we shall put an end to them..." she frowned, adding grudgingly, "as I suppose the chu'mira did, today... it has the right idea about that at least, if little else..."_

_Mitsora frowned. Her own brother had been placed in one of those 'camps' though he had escaped... the internment camp had been protected from those within and without by the largest Guardian-ter'angreal yet constructed... the last constructed also, since the Aes Sedai responsible for their design had gone insane, killing several of his Apprentices before taking his own life... the knowledge of their making had died with him, the man had always been very secretive, as well as increasingly eccentric. Much knowledge was dying at the moment..._

"It_ may be a chu'mira, but_ he_ is the Lightborn, Azille. And he did save our-"_

"_He's a k'jasic monster like his brother was, a monster that will one day turn on his Master! I mean_, its_ Master..."_

"_If he were a monster, then far from verbally chastening you for wounding him with your ridiculous artillery strikes – which I repeatedly told you to _not_ order – then in place of being sarcastic, he would surely have killed and eaten you in stead? Logically, since you remain sadly un-slain and unconsumed, he cannot be a monst-"_

"_You and your bajad drovja logic," Azille snarled, "you are as bad as your pillow-pal! You and Kiam were always wittering on about logic _this_ and logic _that_..."_

_Mitsora smiled a goading smile. "I think me that you are yet upset that Kiam did not wish to remain as _your_ pillow-pal, dear Azille... this is, I believe, the founding-stone of your mutual antipathy?" Azille scowled poisonously. "Perhaps, in addition to your constant snitching to the Instructors, this is why Kiam insisted upon the uecha rather than mice or frogs, as are more traditionally utilised in the Initiate dormitories for the purposes of obtaining revenge?" Mitsora did not grin very often, but could not restrain herself. "Your screams were loud indeed, I believe that they might have been heard as far away as the Midnight City of Larcheen!" _

_Azille rose from the chair, small fists bunched, face red. "It was hiding under the k'jasic pillow... it crawled over my tsaggin face and pinched me on the chossin nose!" Azille composed herself a little, her expression of angry disgust becoming one of grim satisfaction. "And _you_ screamed loudly too, Mitsora, when you got six-of-the-best with the penance-rod! Though it should have been a round dozen!" _

_Mitsora nodded reasonably. "That I did, it was unduly painful, though Kiam endured her own punishment in silence." They considered the past awhile._

"_Tsag! Wish I was still back at the Academy... back before the War..." Azille eventually muttered, not looking at her. _

"_I also," Mitsora agreed, with a heart-felt sigh. "I would that the last eighty years were merely a particularly bad dream... but they are not." She composed herself, though it had been nice to reminisce, even with Azille. "There is a stedding to which I must go."_

"_A stedding? Why?"_

"_My brother is there, do you recall him from the Academy?"_

"_Djonni?" Azille shrugged, "he was a nice enough boy, I suppose... though I thought he was dead?" She eyed Mitsora, then began to recite a dutiful condolence; "I was sorry, to hear..."_

"_That one of the Madmen in their 'camps' had been slain? Save your tears, Azille, reports of my brother's demise were premature. I thought him dead also, but it seems he escaped when the Companion attacked the camp..." Mitsora smiled warmly. She could scarcely believe the news, but Gwilim Sedai had sent her a Spirit-message by dream-courier, which had been very thoughtful of him, and Djonni had been standing next to him beneath the oak, smiling... though there were dark circles beneath his eyes and he had looked far too thin... _

"_How did he escape? I heard they all died?"_

_Goaeur Rantoel, once-Companion to the Dragon, had been intrigued by the internment camp up on the low mesa, by the fact that if he approached too closely then his Power disappeared... he had stood there awhile, examining it whilst he laughed, the tears streaming down his ravaged, nose-less face... and then, in order to destroy the camp and the strange ter'angreal within – for a Companion generally destroyed that which he found intriguing – he had created a shallow chasm about the mesa, diverted a nearby river so that it turned the object of his intrigue into a large island, waited until the rising water level had begun to drown the complex of low domes... the Guardian ter'angreal set at its centre where the male channellers were kept, unable to seize saidin, the outer perimeter where the Sisters guarding them could yet embrace saidar, though their puny fireballs and other attacks he dismissed with a contemptuous wave... all of it, inundated by the rising flood... _

_Then, Goaeur did something he often did. He liked to make rivers burn. He set the water afire, using his particular Talent to ignite the oxygen molecules therein, the boiling liquid seething with a pure white phosphorescence... and everybody died. Those who tried to escape, he destroyed. All but one. Afterwards, he regarded the smoking island in the steaming lake with vague satisfaction, laughing softly to himself and dabbing at his eyes with a scrap of filthy rag that had once been a fine silk handkerchief monogrammed with the initials; 'GR.' It did not trouble him overly that the ter'angreal still seemed to be functioning, since everyone was, after all, dead. _

_All but the one who had swum so well, who Goaeur had allowed to flee unharmed, since he had always been a keen swimmer himself, back before he lost the leg, and had rather admired the young fellow's determination. He would destroy him the next time he saw him, or one of the others would. It did not matter. _

_Then, this former Hero of the Light who had saved the Dragon's life twice, losing a limb that could not be re-Grown on the second occasion, he who had slain the Forsaken Maalchaeor in personal combat, turned and walked away, a Power-Forged prosthesis thumping into the torn earth beside his foot, which was bare and bloody... the foot that was not flesh was shaped like that of the sinuous creature decorating the Dragon Banner, five golden claws leaving an odd trail in the mud. _

_Goaeur Rantoel had commanded his prosthesis be made in that shape, before the cunningly-articulated leg was grafted to his stump by the Restorers, but then, he had always been known to have a very strange sense of humour... and so, the laughing Companion departed the scene of his crime, to continue with the great task of Breaking the World, a day at a time. He knew why he and the others did what they did, and the knowledge of the Dark One's jest made him laugh all the more. _

"_Djonni and two of his friends got past the guards and attempted to cross whilst the level was still rising... one drowned, one burned, but my brother didn't... he always was a good swimmer. He managed to get out of the water just before Goaeur Rantoel flamed it. I go to join him, since he is all the family I have left..."_

"_Commendable. Well, I am glad he's alive, even if he is a..." Azille hesitated. _

"_A 'Madman' who has escaped his prison?"_

_Azille pouted. She managed to continue to scowl at the same time, making for a rather strange expression. "I was going to say _man_, actually... though to be fair, I never despised him near so much as his sister... tell him to stay in his stedding, Mitsora, or the Blood Ajah will come for him."_

"_Do not issue threats to me, Azille. And he has no intention of leaving in any case, he stood 'prentice to Gwilim Sedai before he was interned, Djonni went to join him, to assist with his research." Mitsora frowned with slight concern. She rather wished Djonni had not done that, she had heard disturbing stories about Apprentices being sucked into vacuoles and never being seen again... but at least her brother was relatively safe for the time being... and in a stedding, of course, others were safe from- _

"_Him?" Azille snorted with contempt. "Gwili beneath the hill!" _

"_Djonni always says that he is a brilliant man. And since his Master took the trouble to locate and inform me that my brother yet lived, it would seem that he is also a _kind _man." _

"_How touching." Azille added a sneer to her scowl. "So, this stedding where they are doubtless all sitting around drinking and singing lewd songs and playing upon their musical instruments... it is on the way to the Stone, I would presume?"_

"_No. It is not. As usual, Azille, you presume incorrectly."_

"_But I thought you were coming south with me?" Azille whined, accusingly. _

"_To join your nasty Blood Ajah? To share your blankets along the way, perhaps? I do not think so, in either case. I hope that you enjoy your journey, and your own delightful company, Azille..."_

"_But you said..."_

"_I said that I would likewise desert what is left of this particular cause, though my path takes me north-west, I am glad to say."_

"_But... it is even more dangerous up there!"_

"_It is, and that is the third consecutive sentence which you have begun with the word 'but.' Your vocabulary was always poor, Azille, but then, you _are_ from M'Jinn. Though at least you are not swearing for a change..." Mitsora smiled thinly, inclining her head. "I will bid you farewell, then."_

"_What?"_

"_You asked me if I had made my decision, to join the ranks of the deserters as you intend, and I have. I did not say anything about travelling with _you_, Azille." Azille was glaring at her, red-faced and speechless. "Have a pleasant voyage to the far south." Mitsora raised an ironic warning finger. "And heed the words of your dear mother, assuming that she was good enough to provide you with such advice..." she smirked, "_...do_ be careful not to speak to any strange men on the road, Azille." _

_Unsurprisingly, Azille scowled, or scowled _more_, a dark thunderhead of an expression. Mitsora turned and walked away without looking back. She doubted that she would see Azille again. Or that Azille would see her, for that matter, should her own travels through the Breaking World prove more dangerous. Even so... she smiled. _That_ had had certainly told _her_. Undersized snitch. As did her pillow-friend from the Academy, Mitsora had always had an appreciation for logic... and had always liked to have the final word even more. _

"_Shaea!" she heard Azille shout, from above. _

_Well, one did not _always_ get to have it, of course. Mitsora shrugged and did not cease her progress down the gantry. She should pack... wear her stoutest boots... and she would certainly survive a last insult from the likes of Azille Narof. Mitsora smiled, thinking of some of the quarrels with Kiam over the years, the harsh words flung back and forth... the pleasant making-up the next time they met... Azille's crudeness did not remotely trouble her, it was hardly the _first_ time in her life that she had been called a 'bitch' after all... _

The Lightborn blinked slowly at her confession. "You are a deserter, Mitsora Sedai? I am very sorry to hear this. There are harsh penalties for that." He adopted a quizzical expression. "Though of late, those who should carry out such punishments are usually not available to, since they have deserted themselves." He shook his head disparagingly. "There is no such thing as _desertion _anymore, the Northborder is _gone_, everyone is fleeing south... except for the fanatics and some of the _really _stupid Warmen who disobeyed the Tamyrlin's last order... the Ogier disbanded and went home, but _they _will not, they intend to stay on the Border for as long as there is a Blight to guard against, despite the dangers... they would not listen to me when I told them to obey _Shadar Nor_ and make a life for themselves other than watching for the Shadow at Noon... they said that they did not know _how_ to... _Warmen!_" The Lightborn shrugged. "Though there have been other orders given since, I do not know by whom... a few of the scouts I have met said they had been recalled south to this _Stone_, whatever that is..."

"That is where the scowling 'prentice who called in the artillery was going, also. Azille deserted her post, as did I." Mitsora sighed. "Well, there you have it. I am one of those who fled. I abandoned my duty." She tried to pass him back the golden serpent-ring, but the Lightborn would not take it, putting his gloved hands behind his back. She would have much preferred them back on her shoulders, kneading sensuously away, or performing similar offices elsewhere. Why did he have to give her the accursed Ring anyway, and completely spoil the mood? _Men!_

"I thought you had word of your brother, that you came out west to find him?"

Mitsora flushed. "Well, yes. That is why I deserted, when the Sister-General would not give me compassionate leave to go."

"She should have... one of the fanatics of the Death Ajah, I would suppose?"

"Very much so."

"Then it seems that you abandoned your duty to avoid abandoning your humanity." The Lightborn grinned. "Though I know little of humans. Someshta always finds your kind very confusing and I am forced to concur with him."

"_Men_ are confusing, not 'humans' as such. And you are clearly a man in _that _respect, also. Though you make a pleasingly logical assessment of my crime."

The Lightborn shrugged. "If you like. But I have seen the way you look at your brother... and I see no dishonour in what you did. Put on the ring, _Aes Sedai_."

Mitsora surrendered to his logic as though embracing _saidar _and slipped the ring onto the third finger of her left hand. It fit perfectly. She had never been superstitious, of course, but thought this a good omen in any case. With luck, she would not share the fate of its former wearer, nor similarly have it taken from her own cold finger... she held up her hand, turning it back and forth, the gold glinting.

"Wear it with pride." The Lightborn tapped his Shield-_ter'angreal_. "That is what Vora Aes Sedai said to me when she gave me this, and I did not dare refuse!"

"Kiam told me of her old Mistress... she sounded... formidable."

"Oh, she was a tough lady, Vora Aes Sedai... even in _death_... the Darkhound that bit her, she got angry with it and span a War-web I have never seen before or since... her fingers glowed with the Light, too bright to look at, like Elder Brother's eyes when he went into battle... and she tore the vile cur apart with her bare hands! The other Shadowdogs whined and backed-off... I had never seen a whole pack of _Far Shai'tan Shae'en_ look fearful before, but they did on _that _day..." he chuckled softly, "...old Vora... even after all these years, I am still a bit scared of her myself!"

Mitsora examined the gift, then the giver. Her smile held irony in addition to gratitude. "A present of jewellery from a lover _before _the lovemaking? Not after?"

"Unusual, I know. But there will be no _after_..." he hesitated "_Aes Sedai_... would you be angry if you awoke in the morning and I was not there?"

Mitsora frowned, put her hands on her hips. "Just a cold and empty place in the sheets? Not even a love-poem scribed on scented note-paper, a single red rose left on the pillow? _Of course _I would be angry, any self-respecting woman would be."

"Oh." He Who Shields from the Shadows of the Night seemed prematurely guilty at what he would feel in the morning, the guilt of He Who Dresses in the Dark and Sneaks from the Room... creeping away in the dawning light of a new day, boots in hand... yes, definite guilt. Clearly, he did not appreciate that _she _had a sense of humour also.

Mitsora sighed. "But since you troubled to be honest about it beforehand, then I will allow you this comfort; when I wake in the morning and find that you are not there, I will at least _understand_." He smiled in relieved fashion, stepping closer and giving her own hair a reciprocal stroking, which sensation she enjoyed. He touched her dark locks with care, the Power-Forged steel tips of his gauntlets not disarranging the thin platinum chains that connected the seven differently-hued _ter'angreal _discs of her paralis-net. She would have him take the gloves off as well as the _cadin'gai_, she had decided, unless he did not wish to. She wanted him to feel comfortable.

"I will _still _be angry, though," Mitsora added. The relieved smile faded a little, then returned appreciatively as he leant forward, sliding his hand to the back of her neck. She could feel his warmth pressing against her... he felt very warm.

Mitsora Caal returned the Lightborn's kisses with measured yet mounting enthusiasm and felt herself lifted in strong arms and cradled, carried toward the elm in question, still being firmly yet somewhat carefully kissed. In the comfortable apartment beneath, an Ogier-sized bed awaited them... and she felt a touch of nervousness beneath her undeniable arousal, since she had certainly never contemplated doing anything like _this_ before.

The Lightborn was certainly not her typical lover... but then, his 'uncle' had not been either. The off-and-on liaison with Gwilim Sedai had begun in a dark, twisting maze within the lesser void... Mitsora had clung to him in the blackness, sobbing with hysterical relief when he found her, providing calm assurance that he could lead them back to safety. She had been in a somewhat vulnerable state at the time, granted, though he did not take advantage until she began to kiss him, by which point she had fully wished him to take advantage. It had felt good to reaffirm life in that forbidding place... and it would be good to do so again, in the arms of the one whom the _Da'shain _called 'Nightwatcher.'

Mitsora was no young _Aiel_-child, scared of the monsters in the dark if nothing else... but even so, with _Vron'cor_ watching over her sleep, she did not think the whispering voices and cold breaths of air would come to torment her on _this _night.

Mitsora smiled as the Lightborn lowered her gently to the bed, and after shedding her Well-_ter'angreal _and dispensing with her gown, began to help him to remove his own clothing with a certain amount of haste, two pairs of hands fumbling at the buckles of his _cadin'gai _while their lips met. He had a tattoo on his broad, smooth chest, over his heart... some kind of ancient numeral glyph, the same shade of blue her streith gowns assumed when she was at her most serene. Another omen?

Mitsora tugged the Lightborn down onto the bed with a touch of impatience, her habitual rationality sacrificed in the flames of their rising passion. She had heard enough of what he called 'gossip' from Karella Fanway and other War-Sisters to anticipate a pleasant and diverting experience, though a touch of fear at the unknown added savour to this anticipation. And apart from anything else... well, this would be a golden opportunity to find out whether Kiam had lied about the tail or not...

* * *

><p>Chaime had enjoyed the conversation, the reminiscence, but could not tarry in these Ways forever. Prophecies did not just fulfil themselves, they required slaves of fate to enact their advent. Besides, the distant, tainted siren-song of <em>saidin <em>was pulling at him, even in this place. They should return to the _stedding_. He touched the pair of locator-key _ter'angreal _in his belt-pouch, tracing their shapes through the thin velvet. The smaller of the two, that which opened the Gholam's stasis-box, he would leave here. Deindre had told him so... but which of them was he to give it to?

Chaime inclined his head to young Gwili. "I thank you for sending me the Doorway. I have spoken with the Snakes..."

Gwili frowned. "I was hoping that you would think better of using it. Two for two! _Both _Doorways have you entered, Chaime! Even I was not foolish enough to do _that!_ You were a fool to trespass into the Realms of the _Eelfinn_, the first to do so since they tricked me... but the _Aelfinn _also? Didst wish to sleep an hundred years, as did I?" There was a pause, in which Chaime simply looked at him flatly, then Gwili added, grudgingly; "what did they say?"

"They said that I must go to where an _Aes Sedai_ is rendered powerless."

"That certainly sounds like a _stedding_ to me..."

"That I must hide something there..." Chaime reached into his belt-pouch and withdrew the larger of the flattened crystal _ter'angreal_, showing it to Gwili, "..._this_."

"A locator-key for a stasis-box... well, I have good relations with the Elders of this _stedding_, I am sure that if we prevail upon them, they will agree to..."

Chaime was shaking his head. "This is not the correct _stedding_."

"How do you know?"

"Because my followers, those whom I have led here from the _Collam Doon_, are all still alive. But for young Medric, who went mad three days ago, and Haan, who he destroyed before the other 'prentices could shield and sever him. The shock of it killed Medric. Just as well, he would not have wished to live like that, without _saidin_ but with the guilt of his actions, should he ever have regained his sanity long enough to remember what he had done. Sometimes they do. He and Haan were good friends..."

"The Taint does not distinguish between friend or enemy."

"Or kin either. The Dragon loved his family more than life itself." Chaime frowned. "The _Aelfinn_ told me that I would know I had come to the correct _stedding _when but _one _of my followers yet lived. So, the search continues."

"_Snakes!_" Gwilim snarled, disparagingly. "They are _worse _than the Foxes, if anything... oh, to the _Eelfinn _we are playthings, a source of diversion... nourishment... but the _Aelfinn_... I have always thought that they played a _deeper_ game. The Snakes move us about the Pattern with their sly hints, like soul-pieces on a _zara_ board... and with the same evil enjoyment and intent as any Friend of the Dark."

"I do not disagree... but they give true answers, provided the right questions are asked. All too true, unfortunately... they told me the manner of my own death."

"In your bed, suffocated beneath a trio of attractive courtesans?"

"Unfortunately not. It involves poison." Chaime put the Crystal back in its velvet pouch, withdrew a small vial filled with a clear liquid from the hidden pocket in his sleeve, showed it to Gwilim, then tucked that back away too. "Slow-release venom combined with a compound distilled from the asping-root. Odourless and tasteless. Painless also, one would hope."

"Hopefully. Do you think anyone will remember us, old Walrus?"

"Oh, they will remember _you_, 'Gwili.' Children will, at least..."

"Well, that is better than nothing, I suppose. To be remembered in a story (though I still blush at my foolishness) for all that it is not _much_ of a story... but I have always felt that a child's good opinion is worth far more than that of any adult. They tend to look at the heart of the matter, rather than its surface. And _my_ tale will be told forever. The Foxes said so." Gwili scowled. "They thought it was _funny_, that I should be remembered thus... my important deeds forgot, everything I am and have been, reduced to a silly character in a children's yarn... though the name will alter in time, I expect... But you, Chaime Kufer Mors, Aes Sedai? What of _your_ posterity?"

Chaime bowed slightly in acknowledgement of the use of his Third Name. "Personally, I hope that I am long forgotten by the time this new Age comes to an end, though I have the satisfaction of knowing that there is one person at least, who will remember me. Well, _two_, if all goes according to plan, and I think that it will. And the Gholam, of course, though it is not a person, and I doubt it would recall me any more fondly than my contemporaries. Apart from that..." he smiled coldly, "why, I will be content to be tipped into a hole that someone has taken the trouble to dig for me... perhaps a carven stone for my resting place... and then, the World of the Wheel is quite welcome to forget that Chaime Kufer Mors, _Aes Sedai_, ever existed!"

"You always were a morbid fellow, Walrus Sedai. Waving your poison about. So, an absurd bedtime story for me, and a faded carving on a rock for you!"

"I will take the hole over the tale. What will you do now, 'prentice?"

"Oh, my work here is done, that part of it which holds my interest, at least..." Gwili took the ancient fox-mask from the pocket of his coat and held it in his cupped hands, looking down at it for a moment, before he raised his hands to his face. "I shall fly south for the long winter... there is a portal stone I may use."

Gwili's voice sounded hollow. He inclined his smiling fox face, the mask-_ter'angreal_ worked in beaten copper. His bright blue eyes twinkled through the eye-holes and he spread his gloved hands wide, an expansive gesture, the mime rendered more telling by his hidden features, a motion that seemed to imply ruefulness, or perhaps the acknowledgement of the impossibility of avoiding one's place in the Pattern, of outdistancing the steady turn of the Wheel of Fate.

"I will go back to where it all began for me."

"Why do you still wear that mask, young Gwili? I have always wondered."

"For the same reason you have that ugly dagger-_ter'angreal_ hung about your neck." The pleasant baritone echoed sonorously from the confines of the mask which the _Eelfinn_ had given him, all those many years ago; "...self-preservation..." Gwilim raised the fox-mask so that it sat, hat-like, atop his head, copper snout pointed up at the too-blue sky. He smiled grimly, "...because it keeps the wolf from the door."

"So... you mean to return to the Hidden College?

"Of course. Where better for poor Gwili to go, than back beneath his Hill?"

"Well, have a care... Portal Stones can be treacherous..."

"Oh, I picked up a few tricks whilst I was inside." Gwili always called it that. _Inside_, inside the redstone-_ter'angreal_ gate, one of the forbidden doorways to the Realms... he grinned. "You wish to speak of _treachery_, old Walrus? Try a hundred years as the extremely unpopular guest of the _Eelfinn!_ When you dine with the Foxes, use the longest spoon possible!" And Gwili under the Hill laughed, sounding a little unhinged. Well, he _was _of course, had been ever since his return from the Realms. Though perhaps he was not quite so immune to the Taint as he imagined. The mask protected him to an extent, Chaime was sure, but there would be a price for it... there always was, with one of the Eelfinn's 'gifts.'

Gwili ceased his laughter abruptly. "Don't look at me like that, Chaime, I haven't gone mad just yet... expect I will soon enough, though. Expect you will too."

Chaime made a 'please go through the door before me' gesture. "After you, it is only polite."

Gwili chuckled. "And you, my old Master? Where will _you _go?"

"North, most probably. When I can smell the Blight, I shall turn east."

"Have a care yourself, there are still Nightriders up there, and worse..."

"_Nightriders!_ They hold no fear for me. Not after what I did to them." Chaime smiled unpleasantly. "I stood at the side of _my_ old Master as we conducted the tests... we tested one-hundred Myrddraal to destruction, it took weeks... we never did find out how they rode the shadows, or performed some of their other little tricks. Aginor was angry."

"And you, angry also? You have never liked to not know things."

Chaime's smile retained the unpleasantness, with the addition of irony. "I know, but I was not angry on that occasion. I was amused. And fully prepared to accept failure, though old Ishar Morrad was not. I spent three long years under the Shadow... some of the things I saw, that I was forced to do myself... well, it was not an enjoyable time for me." The smile became grimmer. "With one exception. The tests on the Shadowmen. Now _those_, I thoroughly enjoyed."

"Your ridiculous moustaches and shrivelled appearance often make me forget what a dangerous and vengeful person you are, Chaime."

"Thank-you. So, I to the north, you to the south... back to Hob's Hill."

"Of course. It was where I was born, after all, and raised in your service..."

"You made a lousy _Da'shain_, Gwili, you were constantly dropping things and tripping over the carpets. You had a good voice, granted, but we were all very relieved when you began to manifest and went to take Initiate training..."

Gwili grinned, prodding Chaime teasingly in the chest. "And you thought that you had got rid of me, but I came back to stand 'prentice to you!"

Chaime slapped his hand away. "That you did." He shook his head slowly. "I have had some terrible Apprentices over the years, but you were by far the most useless of them all... even the 'prentices who proved to be Shadowsworn spies and had to be disposed of, were at least competent laboratory assistants! One was a gifted technician when it came to calibrating the tubule-feeds, which I have never enjoyed doing, so even _after _Middle Son told me he was a spy and asked if he could play with him, I considered retaining his services for a while at least... though I did not, of course. You, on the other hand, were incompetent to a frightening degree!"

"Ah, Walrus-Sedai, I know you do not mean that..."

"I do. But it was nice to see you again, Gwili, for one last time..." Chaime frowned, "...are you sure that there is not another way you might travel south?"

"By sho-wing? Haven't seen one for years, not in the air anyway, though there are plenty still lying where they fell, bits of them, anyway... and not by Travelling, that much is certain... I have no idea what it's like down there, as bad as up here most probably... worse even, given the geological conditions. The terrain may have changed drastically, I could step out of a gateway into the smoking caldera of a shield volcano that wasn't there last week! No, its the Portal Stone for me. There is one nearby, I should be able to link it to the one near your old _Collam_..."

"Yes, I noticed it on the way in. Dangerous, to use them... mirrors within mirrors, one never knows if the world one steps back into is the same reality one left."

Gwili grinned. "As long as it is a world that contains alcohol, females and music, who cares? And is there anything in these times that is _not _dangerous?"

"No. Nothing. Well, I know better than to try and talk you out of it. You always were stubborn. So, Gwili will go back under the hill..?"

Gwili nodded and pulled the mask down over his face, performing an elegant, flourishing bow, fluttering the edge of his long coat so that the metallic, diagonal patches caught the light, glinting, seeming to move. He straightened. "That he will." Chaime knew that he was smiling under the mask, from his tones. "After all, my old Master, where do you go to when there's nowhere else left to run? You go _home_."

* * *

><p>In the morning, as he had confessed he would be, the Lightborn was gone. But after sneaking from the room, it seemed that he had taken the trouble to raid the Ogier flower-beds and sneak back again, before that final guilty sneak from the lover's bower, soft boots held in gloved hands.<p>

Mitsora smiled at the lush, velvety blossom on its dark, thorny stem when she woke to find it next to her on the pillow. It was a very _red _rose, beads of dew still clinging to the petals. She stretched luxuriously, inhaling the flower's delicate fragrance. The Lightborn was taking her a little literally, perhaps... but she appreciated the thought as much as she had appreciated his tender and loving ministrations of the night before. Well, not quite _that _much, but it was a nice gesture, even so.

She was no hopeless romantic like Karella, but after a moment, Mitsora shrugged, took the rose carefully by its stem, avoiding the sharp, black thorns that looked a little like the Lightborn's claws, and touched it to her lips briefly, before drawing a small amount of _saidar _from her Well and spinning a Keeping on the red blossom. Well, in the unlikely event that she survived the Breaking to one day become a venerable old _Aes Sedai _who had long put thoughts of love and lust from her mind... she might wish to have a keepsake of a time when this had not been so. Oh, and Kiam was a liar. No tail.

* * *

><p>Chaime Kufer was glad that they were leaving in the morning, but sorry also. Young Gwili was over by the fire, playing his fiddle in a wild, skirling air, his silent Apprentice accompanying him with the high whine of a mandolin, his fingers flashing over the frets while his face, partly hidden behind dark locks of hair, remained perfectly blank. Chaime turned away. No, it was not <em>him<em>. He had not touched a drum all night. Which meant that...

Chaime glanced at the young 'prentice sharing his bench. His features were much like those of his sister, who stood speaking with some Ogier maidens... but weaker, without the same determination, or passion in the gaze... his eyes were staring sightlessly into space, his hands resting idly on the sung-wood frame of his drum, goatskin stretched tautly over it. Chaime cleared his throat;

"Tell me, 'prentice Caal... do you ever dream True Dreams?"

The young Apprentice blinked, and looked at him. He seemed more lucid that he had on their previous meeting. "I used to, Chaime Sedai, my sister has the gift also... I dreamt of this place long before I came to it... I saw myself here..." he scowled, "...here, in this place which I may not leave."

"What were you doing in the dream?"

The Apprentice's voice sounded as though he were half-asleep, or slipping into a trance of some kind. "I was laying very still, my hands folded upon my chest... I held in them a red jewel..."

"Like this?" Chaime held up the Key-_ter'angreal_ of blood-red crystal.

"Yes, exactly like that." Chaime held it out and the young man took it from him, turning it over in his hands. "A locator-key for a stasis-box..." he looked up, dull curiosity occurring in his pale, blue eyes. "What is in the box, Chaime Sedai?"

"A monster."

"Oh..."

"At the Academy, did you know a Sister named Deindre?

"Deindre Sedai? Yes, she taught me for a year, she was nice but it was hard to hear her voice if you sat in the back of the lecture hall, we all had to cram into the front rows." The young Apprentice grinned. "She never wore shoes!"

"No, she never does." Chaime nodded at the _ter'angreal _that 'prentice Caal still held. "Deindre told me to give that to you."

"She did? She Prophesied of me?"

"Her exact words were; 'give it to the dreaming boy who beats a drum.' "

The young Apprentice grinned, bouncing the _ter'angreal_ on his palm and tapping out a quick rhythm on the drumhead with the fingertips of his other hand. Chaime winced. The 'prentice had a fine, reedy tenor, the ballad about the Princess tragically transformed into a swan on her wedding day, which he had soulfully performed earlier, had made some of the Ogier maidens cry, as well as his sister, but the drumming was irritating indeed. He resisted the urge to snatch the drum away.

"I had another dream a time ago, Chaime Sedai, a True Dream also, I think..." the young Apprentice had not yet put the _ter'angreal _in his pocket, still seemed to be deciding whether to take it or not, "...I saw a tall man with a cruel face and dark, deep-set eyes... he wore Kingly robes and a Royal coronet shaped like the mythic beast on the Dragon Banner... he held out his hand and closed his fingers slowly into a fist, and reality shook to its very foundations..." he eyed Chaime solemnly, "...and then I saw him again, as a youth, digging beneath a carven stone, here, in this _stedding_... he found a skull, some bones... and the red jewel." He bounced the _ter'angreal _thoughtfully on his palm a few more times. "He unearthed this Key, and took it away with him, away to find and wake his monster... and then I woke up."

"Will you take the Key, as Deindre wished?"

A sly, almost crafty expression appeared on 'prentice Caal's face, a hint of childish obstinacy beneath. "What of you, Chaime Sedai? Do you wish it?"

"I do."

"I will take it, if you tell me something... something true, something that I already know, but I wish to hear from you..."

"I will if I can."

"My dreams... the red jewel laid on my breast, the hole dug by the youth, the bones... tell me, Chaime Sedai, what do the dreams truly mean?"

"The dreams mean that you will never leave this place, 'prentice Caal. That you will die here and be buried in the earth beneath a marker-stone." Chaime felt an odd sense of kinship with the young man for an instant, though was not sure why.

The young Apprentice smiled sadly. "I know. I have always known." There was an odd sense of dignity to him as he spoke; "_that _is what the True Dreams mean. That is what they have _always_ meant. I have been dreaming of my own death since I was a child. I never told my sister, I did not wish to upset her. I thank you for your honesty, Chaime Sedai." He tucked the _ter'angreal _into his pocket, rose, bowed, and walked away, pulling the sticks from his coat-pocket and beginning to tap out a fast beat on the drum slung about his neck as he went to join the other musicians.

Chaime watched young Djonni go, another doomed slave of Prophecy... perhaps _that_ was what they had in common?

"Of what were you speaking with my brother, Chaime Sedai?" Chaime looked up. Mitsora Sedai stood over him, looking a little stern. "I saw you give him something..."

Chaime shrugged. "It is for him to say, since it involves Prophecy. I gave him a gift, and I have one for you also." He raised his hands to the silken cord and raised the dagger-_ter'angreal _from about his neck, letting it swing back and forth. "It has served me well for many years, but I have no further need for it. The device may prove of use to you or one of your Sisters..." he smiled thinly, "it works for women as well as men."

Mitsora looked at the ancient, blunt, horn-hilted dagger uncertainly. "I thank you... may I ask its function, Chaime Sedai?"

"Oh, as young Gwili observed, it keeps the wolf from the door..."

Chaime removed the dagger-_ter'angreal_ for the first time since he had emerged from the Doorway of the _Eelfinn _wearing it, as well as leaning upon the long haft of a Power-Forged, four-bladed axe... and pressed the ancient ward against the Dark One's influence into the reluctant hands of its new owner. As he did so, he felt a strange sensation that he had not experienced in a very long time, a lifting, an unburdening... it took him a moment to realise that after more than one hundred and fifty years had passed, he once more knew what it was to feel _free_.

* * *

><p><strong>Part III: Precocity<strong>

Kiam Lopiang, _Aes Sedai_, watched with the dark, narrowed eyes that were all that could be seen of her as the black-robed Defector and his grey-robed acolytes-in-evil filed from the _stedding _and turned north. They were walking and not Travelling, they had learned _that _lesson, it seemed. As had she. The land had changed too much, Travelling had gone from a useful tool of locomotion to an extremely dangerous way to become hopelessly lost. Perhaps she should acquire a horse? That might be nice...

Unlike most, who were being forced by necessity to learn this and other ancient skills, Kiam already _knew_ how to ride... she had always loved horses. Well, _after_ she went to the Academy, and first began to visit the stables, and fell hopelessly in love with the graceful thoroughbreds therein... but there had been no such steeds in the city of her childhood. Horses didn't care for heights, the citizens had ridden _raka _for recreation instead.

Kiam had gone out one day with an incorrectly-buckled safety harness... a strong gust of wind tipping the beast over... the jerk and snap of the strap about her waist coming free... plummeting down toward the World Sea far below... screaming '_tsag!_' at the top of her voice... feeling disappointedly angry that it was all over... she was only _fifteen_... damn good job her Power had chosen to manifest itself _then_.

Kiam had never bothered to ride her _raka _again, she had not _needed_ to, had given him to a friend. She had never much cared for the leathery-pinioned creatures anyway, they stank. She had not ever much cared for men either, though they did not have wings, so perhaps _rakas _were an improvement on _them_ at least. Well, she certainly liked horses more than men, anyway. Dogs also, pigs too. Not cats though, they made her sneeze. And horses were still her favourite.

Kiam frowned. _That_ was how she had met the accursed Lightborn, over the body of her dead horse! She had been tearfully grateful that he had taken the trouble to put the shrapnel-torn animal out of its misery, as she had not been able to bring herself to personally end poor Snowdancer's suffering... Healing would have killed her, it always did with seriously injured animals that had decided to lay down and die... she could not bear to even look at what had become of her graceful, white mare.

It had therefore taken Kiam a moment to realise that the Lightborn, after neatly slicing a large artery in the neck with a deft swipe of his fore-claw, had swiftly removed the steaming liver from her beloved beast and was squatting there chewing away with relish, making soft growly noises of enjoyment... sociable relations between the young Apprentice and the young War-Construct had rather gone downhill from that point. As first impressions go, neither of them had fared particularly well. _He _worse than _her_, though, they had both agreed on this later, when they discussed the awkward incident over a _tcheran _board. And now he was _gone_, the irritating, maddening, infuriating Lightborn would never bother her again, could trouble her no more. Kiam wondered why she felt quite so desolate about this...

Kiam Lopiang was standing very still in her fancloth, a scout-mantle twisted about her head, the veil raised so that only her dark, tilted eyes were visible, occupying the same hill from which she had watched the Lightborn depart the _stedding _at dawn, the previous week. She had followed him to within a day's travel of the Black College before he had provokingly disappeared in that way he did. He must have _known _she was following all along... sent her on a wild goose chase. _Typical!_

Fortunate, Kiam considered, that she was no fool, had used the expedient of opening Gateways at intervals throughout the area, waiting until she encountered a place where the webs fell apart at the other end, indicating the presence of a Gateward. The Black College would definitely have one of _those_. Now, _she _had it. She had still got there too late, though. Kiam scowled. What to do?

Go back and try to kill the Companion, Haindar Javagd? There didn't seem to be much point anymore, since the Lightborn was no longer playing and besides, he wouldn't be as easy as Veic or Mynar had been, and they had been _far _from easy. _Especially_ the Flag-Servant, her _second_ Companion on the scoreboard, he had still been dragging that damned _ter'angreal_-staff around with him, the shield it projected dispelling all of her attacks, even when she used Balefire, which she really wasn't supposed to...

Vora had taught the forbidden web to her and told her that if she ever used it except in the most extreme exigency, she would receive a spanking that would make a Myrddraal weep. Kiam had agreed fervently to this condition... her old Mistress had never been one for the making of idle threats.

It had turned into a battle of wills in the end, Kiam holding Vora's blazing _sa'angreal _aloft, standing her ground against the tall, emaciated psychotic who loomed over her... Veic's single, dark eye (the other white and blind) holding hers as dreadful forces were unleashed all around them, rocks melting from the stray heat-webs, the sky overhead blood-red with fire-mist... the ground shaking and churning about them, the sea exploding into clouds of salted steam... _saidar _and _saidin _locked together, tooth and claw, a contest of pure Power... a deadlock, a stalemate... so that when Kiam stepped calmly through his shield and stabbed Veic in the heart, he had looked surprised, though it was hard to tell because half his face had rotted off.

Kiam smiled, a little gloatingly. She was still quite pleased with herself for thinking of _that_. Tipping the balance in her favour by doing something unexpected. Well, with all of the complex and murderous channelling going on, poor old Veic had not been expecting something so simple, after all. Which was exactly why she had done it. His _ter'angreal-_staff only worked for men so she had not taken it with her but used it to mark his grave, which seemed appropriate, though there was no flag to tie to it unfortunately... but for the Dragon Banner of course, which he had been using as a cloak, though it was surprisingly unsoiled compared with the rest of him.

Kiam had retrieved the Banner and later given it to Solinda Sedai, but there was still the matter of the bare flagpole, so she had contributed her white silk halter, fashioning it into a sort of pennant that fluttered pleasingly in the breeze... white was her favourite colour, she always wore white things under the fancloth.

Kiam also always made a point of burying the Madmen she had put out of their misery, if there was not enough wood about for a pyre, which there had not been in the vicinity of the lonely, muddy beach that had not been a beach for very long, where Veic had been glumly inspecting the ocean he had summoned so much closer than it had been, when Kiam descended silently to confront him and put that second notch in her belt. It had been satisfying, to draw level with the Lightborn again.

Kiam invariably tried to make some sort of funerary arrangement after, a token act of respect for those former Brothers of hers whom she had euthanised... it was a merely symbolic act, but symbols were important, and she especially attempted to honour the dead Madmen if they were Companions, whom she had once idolised, since they did the most damage to the Shadow on a regular basis, of which she could only approve. She _was _a War-orphan, after all... but then, so were lots of people.

It had always annoyed Kiam that the Companions did not accept Sisters, she was sure she could have got in if they did... she and some others had wanted to go with the Dragon and his Companions on the day of the Strike, but old Vora had found out about the little conspiracy she and Karella had cooked-up... Azille _snitched _on them, the pint-sized, scowling little runt... and Vora Aes Sedai had other ideas. They had not been able to sit down for nearly a _week_. Kiam sighed. Even after fifty years, she still missed dear old Vora... and was still a bit scared of her, too. Most people had been scared of Vora Sedai, if they had any sense. Even the Lightborn, who had none!

So... kill Haindar? Or die in the attempt, might be a more likely scenario... No, she wouldn't be trying _that_, not just yet, anyway... besides, she knew where to find him... Haindar Javagd would not be going anywhere for a while, there were still plenty of things left out west for him to destroy. Kiam's eyes followed the line of male channellers walking steadily north, the nine grey robes and the one black.

Follow the Defector then, see what he was up to? Wait for a few more of his Apprentices to lose their minds and their lives, as those other two had, evening-up the odds in her favour a little? Wait until there were but two or three left, she could handle that many, they were only 'prentices and not war-trained... incapacitate them quickly with Vora's _sa'angreal_, sever them if they proved troublesome... and then, when it was just _him_...

_Kill the Defector_. Yes, she would very much like to do _that_. Seven hundred and seventy-seven years was enough life for anyone. And after he was dead... take the locator-key from his corpse (which she would leave for the crows) go back to the Black College, shift a little rubble and wake the Lightborn with a kiss? _That_ might be fun! She had kissed him once, in jest and to teach him a lesson for his endless and childish practical jokes, and recalling his shocked expression still gave her pleasure.

Kiam sighed. She didn't _like_ him... they weren't _friends_... and yet she _missed _him. It made no sense. She had known the Lightborn for half a century, off and on, whereas just about everyone else she had known as an Apprentice was dead and gone... he wasn't dead, but might as well have been to her... and _why _did she miss him? It defied logic, which made her feel angry, which was an illogical reaction and angered her more. Kiam scowled. She would almost certainly never see the Lightborn again, not ever hear his voice... no more grinning and jesting to have to endure... and yet, even absent, he was _still _somehow managing to annoy her!

She should follow the Defector and his 'prentices... but, on the other hand... the _stedding _was only just over there, she could always catch up to them later, they were not moving very fast... Kiam's fancloth veil shifted slightly over her mouth as she smiled... yes, she could go and visit Mitsy... it was a tempting idea, for even if there was no actual pillowing (though there probably would be) there would at least be companionship... until they had one of their huge arguments and went their separate ways, of course. But it would be very good to see dear Mitsy again... Kiam frowned. She was still a bit _annoyed _with her about the other night, though...

_Eyesight sharpened by the saidar that filled her, Kiam Lopiang watched while the Lightborn lifted and carried her friend Mitsora Caal down the shallow steps that led beneath the tall elm, the slender Aes Sedai cradled carefully in the arms of her Shieldman. For the night, at least. He had 'shielded' many an adventurous young Sister for the night before, after all. Always tomcatting around... Kiam only frowned a little, when she might have scowled or expressed some form of deeper irritation, but she could not help but hiss the number 'three!' under her breath, her voice pitched carefully low, though she was too far away for even the sharp-eared Lightborn to hear. Mitsy made the third of her lovers who had subsequently found their way into his arms... did he do it to annoy her? No, he just _did_ it... the annoyance was a mere involuntary side-effect of his actions, she had decided, pretty much _all_ of his actions... _

_Besides, it looked as though Mitsy had been doing most of the instigating, stroking his fur like that, a golden glint on the caressing hand... so she finally wore the Ring. She would have been Raised years ago, had she troubled to apply herself, lifted her nose out of whichever cause she had most lately adopted. Mitsy had always reserved her passion for her beliefs, though there were times when she could be very passionate in a more recreational setting... Kiam realised that she was beginning to feel regretful that it was the Lightborn and not she down there, holding Mitsy in a warm embrace, and she allowed herself to scowl a little as she watched them disappear from sight, through the sung-wood door set in the low mound of an Ogier apartment. The door was unceremoniously kicked shut, and that was that. _

_Kiam sighed. Three... this was also the number of Companions she intended to kill... two down, one to go... she would outdo the Lightborn in that, as in everything else. She had been following him for nearly a month, had lost his trail twice, or perhaps he had sensed he was being followed... he was very good at avoiding detection. But she had advantages he lacked, over and above the fact that she was female and he, if not exactly a man, was certainly hampered by his maleness and all that went with it... and she could touch the Source, which gave her an edge. She could Travel of course, though it was extremely dangerous to do so in these times of shifting lands and rising seas, the practice dying out, few Apprentices even troubled to learn the webs anymore. She could Skim where Travelling was precluded, which was slightly less dangerous. And then, there was always her particular Talent..._

_Kiam's curiosity, tinged perhaps with jealousy, had caused her to drift a little lower, and she hastily corrected her altitude, feeling the One Power flare within her as she span the complex webs that allowed her to lift her own weight high above the ground... in short, to _fly_. A unique ability, Flight, and one that she was fully exploiting to spy upon the strange denizens of this stedding... odd, to see Mitsy here of all places... Kiam thought that she had glimpsed her brother earlier, bashing away at a drum. Poor Djonni... he had always been a sweet boy at the Academy, shy and tender where most of the male Initiates were the sort of brash, arrogant youths she despised. Kiam had been certain he would survive the severing, but his doting sister would not allow it. Mitsy had always had a blind spot where family were concerned. _

_Kiam had only one living relative who she hated with a passion, so could not empathise. The rest of her large family had perished in the Floating City of her birth, wiped from the Pattern with Balefire in the first year of the War, when they and the other citizens of N'zoar refused to swear to the Shadow. Had she not been away at the Academy, Kiam would have joined them in death. There were times when she wished she had... when the news came, Mitsy held her until she had no tears left, and then continued to hold her until dawn, when Kiam finally found the blessed oblivion of sleep in her arms. She never wept about her family again. Or anything else._

_Not even Snowdancer, not even when old Vora had smiled up at her wordlessly through the blood and weakly pressed the twisted ivory sa'angreal into her hand as the life left her eyes. Oddly, the Lightborn had knelt and cried over Vora's body instead, after he had finished killing the rest of the Darkhounds... he could be strangely soft-hearted sometimes, considering the way he could be at other times. _

_Kiam was uncertain how high the aura of a stedding extended, so carefully hovered well above the topmost boughs of the Great Trees, her slim, fancloth-swathed form invisible against the grey clouds that loured above. It would be best to not descend too low, her flying ability relied on being connected to the True Source and should she drift within the influence of the stedding's mysterious aura, then she would be facing quite a long drop to the ground... she might even crash through the skylight set beside the elm and end up joining Mitsy in her bed, after all! She wondered what the Lightborn would make of _that_ sudden appearance? _

_Grinning at the idea, Kiam turned smoothly and flew away, her speed increasing as she sped back to her camp on a hill overlooking the stedding... she suspected that the Lightborn would be making an early start, in which case so would she. Her grin faded at the thought of what Mitsy and the Lightborn were doubtless currently doing... whereas _she_ would be retiring to her blankets in solitary splendour. She should not have been spying on them in so private a situation, she supposed, but had at least resisted the urge to take a voyeuristic peek through the skylight... feeling disgruntled and lonely, Kiam flew back to her tent through a grey and cloudy sky, tinged silver by the occluded full moon. _

_As her small feet, shod in soft, fancloth slippers, settled to the ground, Kiam yawned and stretched. Thinking glumly of how much nicer it would be to share the cold tent and colder sleeping-bag with another warm person. Even the Lightborn... they had been required to share body heat for survival on one occasion, that time in the cave (once he had convinced the bear to leave it) during the blizzard that caught them when they went to the far south to search for the Hidden Collam... that had been quite nice, after the initial awkwardness. She had been surprised by the heat emanating from him. And grateful. He was much warmer than a human. _

_Huddled against him in their cave for the night, too stretched to channel a flicker and warm them with Fire after her efforts to save them both from the falling sho-wing... well, Kiam had almost been tempted to cast out the habit of a lifetime and share pleasure as well as warmth... just to see what it was like with the Lightborn. _

_Kiam had not, she was not even sure if she would have been rebuffed... though if she ever did give herself to a man out of sheer curiosity, then it would probably be him. He was not really a man in any case, so it would not count, beyond a certain amount of discomfort and her not being able to claim maidenhood anymore. It might have been interesting though, his lips had been surprisingly soft, that time she had kissed him. Probably just as well she never had, though. Men fell in love too easily and she suspected that the Lightborn was no exception when it came to this vulnerability. Kiam had never been in love in her life, and doubted she ever would be. Presumably the Lightborn thought her a cold fish, he had hinted as much a few times... but that was the way she was. Thoughts did not betray you as did feelings. _

_Still, if she had wanted to experiment with a lover of the opposite sex... Kiam did not know that many other men socially, or particularly want to, and better the monster you knew than the one you didn't. Well, Mitsy had doubtless noticed the Lightborn's lack of a tail by now, though he certainly had another appendage with which to please her, which sight had alarmed Kiam that first time she had seen him naked. She had been very angry with him for leaping on her in the bushes like that... it still made her blush to think of it... though she was no prude, despite what he said! To be fair, she had rather brought it on herself by spying on him whilst he bathed in that lake, to see if the rumours were true. They weren't. _

_Well, Kiam did not begrudge the Lightborn his pleasure, his life gave him little enough of that, though she rather begrudged Mitsy _hers_, since she _had_ thrown herself at him... and had not been wearing an under-gown beneath her streith! _Shameless!_ Who did she think she was, _Graendal?_ Kiam had so much rather it had not been Mitsy in those strong arms, but a complete harlot like Karella, for whom one man more or less made little difference... Karella Fanway and the Lightborn were more than familiar with what each other liked, after all._

_Back at the Keystone the Lightborn had been in and out of Karella Sedai's bed on a fairly regular basis, not to mention her bath (when it was not otherwise full of lusty young Warmen) and once or twice (Kiam had heard) in her hoverfly whilst in mid-air, which sounded dangerous but fun, if you liked that sort of thing... which she did not. Though the Lightborn used to go and sleep on (or _hide_ under) his blanket in the grain silo when Karella was angry with him, which the mercurial young War-Sister often was, for one reason or another. _

_Kiam's quarters had been unfortunately situated close beside hers and the sound of them making-up their latest lover's quarrel had often kept her awake. The last time she had seen Karella Fanway, Aes Sedai, she had been setting off to that new fortress down on the equally new southern coast, riding at the head of her elite company of Cavalry Warmen, a particularly handsome young Officer trotting along beside her, the golden hilt above his shoulder adorned with a heron... and a big smile on her proudly beautiful face... so, she was presumably not available for this office. Well, let the Lightborn look on his dalliance with Mitsy as a sort of consolation prize, for Kiam having killed more Companions than he. Which she had not yet done, but most certainly would. _

_Kiam touched the twisted ivory sa'angreal tucked through her belt, and smiled a feral, glittering smile. Yes, _that_ was why she was following him. To defeat him in whatever contest he chose, so that he would be forced to acknowledge her supremacy. She had little else to do with herself, now that the wars seemed to be finally over and the Breaking of the World was getting underway in earnest. Apart from disposing of Madmen, of course... she had encountered and slain several in the course of the last month, though none of them had been Companions, unfortunately. One man she had recognised, he had been one of her Instructors at the Academy and she had felt very sorry for what he had become... but she had euthanised him anyway. Though killing Madmen was rather like trying to hold back the rising tide with bare hands... _

_Kiam's delicate features firmed with resolution as she gazed unseeingly up at the clouds, through which a few bright stars were shining. Her remaining Sisters were scattered, disorganised... as Elisane was always maintaining, it would be well to re-institute the Great Ajah, perhaps even to construct a new Hall of the Servants... but not yet. Anything built in these times would surely be destroyed. This final dark jest of Shai'tan must first run its dreadful course and things would certainly get a lot worse before they showed any signs of getting better, if they ever did... and the Breaking of the World did not simply continue until there was no World left to Break. _

_But Kiam did not think that would happen. The Breaking would end when the last of the male Aes Sedai was thankfully dead... the trouble was, Servants of All tended to live for such a dreadfully long time. Well, _she_ was Aes Sedai also, if she survived then she might well live to see that day. A day for rejoicing, like the day of the Strike on Shayol Ghul. Hopefully, the celebration would not prove quite so premature. She hoped she would be there for it. _

_Kiam scowled. Her chances of survival might have been improved had the Lightborn chosen to remain at her side and face the Breaking with her... his chances also, she had saved his life as often as he hers... even if she had usually been the one to lead them into peril in the first place. But they were not ordinary people, she and the Lightborn, they thrived on danger, lived at the edge of existence where a false step could spell your end. It had always been so..._

_The Lightborn might not be her friend, but had certainly been her comrade in the never-ending War against the Shadow... and he had _said_ he would stick around during their last game, she had been so pleased that she had actually smiled at him properly for once, a rare, genuine, warm expression compared with the usual sort of lip-curvings he received, which even Kiam had to admit were probably more sneer or smirk than smile. But she could not help it, she never could... it was just too much fun goading him for her to be able to force herself to not do it! _

_The Lightborn had smiled back, frowned when she took his High Counsellor, then smiled some more... and that had been that. But then, the summons came... the summons from the Defector, from his 'Father.' Who was nothing of the sort. Kiam knew who the Lightborn's _real_ father was, she was very adept at finding-out secrets... the same seed-donor as had fathered his brothers, but she had never told him this, because he had never asked. Though she thought it a good idea not to anyway, you never knew how he would react to learning something like that... _

_Kiam suspected that he might be quite _pleased_ to know... but then, whenever she had tried to predict his reactions in the past, she had nearly always been incorrect. She thrived on rationality and order, whereas he had always been chaos personified. Well, she would perhaps inform him of his true parentage when next they spoke. Tell him that she was in the lead too, hopefully... _

_Haindar should be dealt with anyway, the Madman was a menace. And Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai, was the very girl to deal with him, one way or another. Perhaps the stabbing-trick might work again? Kiam smiled, a feral baring of the teeth. Men were good at killing... but women were so much better at _winning_. _

_"N'aethan two, Kiam three," Kiam Lopiang whispered, turning toward her tent. The Lightborn did not know it, but she often used his preferred title when he was out of earshot, though never to his face, of course. "The King is dead, Lightborn," she muttered, as she settled disconsolately into her icy and lonely sleeping-bag whilst tying-off a small web of fire to warm the tent, speaking the name she had always used to the face of her old adversary and occasional ally with an odd mixture of contempt and affection. "Long live Queen Kiam."_

Kiam had decided, on second thoughts, to _not_ follow the Defector. Let him walk all the way to the Pit of Doom and cast himself into it, down to where he belonged. Him _and _his Gholam... she knew all about _that_. The Lightborn had told her, after swearing her to silence... it was a game they used to play, an exchange of secrets, the only currency that had any value in _their_ world. She would invariably ask for information about his 'Father' whereas he would always request knowledge concerning _Aes Sedai_, their customs and culture, power and privileges... their feelings and their failings... she had asked him why, once, she did not see what value this might have for him, and he had answered that he could better serve the Servants if he had some idea of what it was like to _be _one. He really should have been born _Da'shain!_

Kiam rather hoped the Lightborn was wrong about not having a soul and that he would be reborn _Aiel_ next time around the Wheel. Whenever that was. She thought he might like that. Though the _Da'shain_ were having the most unenviable time of all, in this new, broken world... Kiam badly wanted to do something about that, since she had always loved those who kept the Covenant even more than she did horses. But as with the Madman problem, she did not even know where to _start_.

Perhaps Elisane would know? But she had gone in search of Solinda and Oselle and the others and had not been seen for some time. Kiam frowned. Elisane Tishar had been number two on the Lightborn's 'make Kiam mad by bedding her former lovers' list! She missed Elisane and hoped that she was still alive, wherever she was... the world needed _Aes Sedai _like her, with serenity equal to their wisdom... though the Lightborn had tested even _her _patience!

Once, when they played their question & answer game, the Lightborn had asked Kiam why she always wanted to know about 'Father' so she had told him the truth (she was still not entirely sure why, other than that it was in the rules) and this knowledge had shocked him even more than the kiss. It would be well to tell him about his real father also, though perhaps that might shock him even more... except that she could not tell him anything ever again because the Lightborn was now inured within a stasis-box hidden deep beneath a million tons of rock. She had sensed the fading residues of the activation-webs emanating from under the broken cliff, the buried Black College. And without the Key-_ter'angreal _she could no more open that cuendillar box, suspended in null-time, than she could stop the Great Wheel from turning by shouting and shaking her fists at it.

Kiam knew that there was but one way to obtain the Key... but if she woke the Lightborn with his foster-sire's blood on her hands... well, that did not bear thinking about. She had idly wondered sometimes, that age-old question boys asked of each other... if such-and-such and so-and-so had a fight, who would win? If the Lightborn had ever had reason to turn on her (and the murder of his 'Father' might well have been enough incentive) who would have prevailed? She was still uncertain.

Besides, Kiam could not do it. Deindre Sedai had said so, that last time she had seen her, when she brought them the Dragon Banner in Paaran Disen. Solinda and the others had been busy assembling a great host of wagons and the horses required to pull them... Kiam was unsure why. But Prophecy was Prophecy, after all. She was glad in a way (though sad in another) that there had been no goodbyes... perhaps it was for the best. She had always hated saying farewell, and to bid it to someone you knew you would never be seeing again would have been so much the worse.

Kiam was extremely irritated also, that the Lightborn had sneaked into her tent whilst she slept on that final night, slipping around her wards with the customary contemptuous ease, to have the final word between them in the form of a taunting note, carefully hidden so that she would not find it for several days. Not to mention sabotaging her grid-map! Infuriating and maddening to the last! No, she would not disturb his rest, even if she could, even if the Pattern permitted it, which it did not, according to Deindre... curse _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_, let him sleep his long sleep and wake in another Age to find another _Aes Sedai _to torment!

Though perhaps she might find a way to leave N'aethan some sort of a _message_, for whenever it was he woke? She would think on it... there was more than one way to get the last word in an argument, after all, and their long association had been as much an extended argument as anything else. Well, it was all over now.

Kiam circled the eastern edge of the _stedding _in a smooth descending curve that brought her in to land with practiced grace beside the odd stone slab that she had noticed earlier. She removed her scout-mantle, draping it about her shoulders and examined the stone curiously. The day she had followed the Lightborn to the _stedding_, there had been some very strange _saidin _webs being spun, powerful and eldritch, some extremely odd residues left over... and it was all centred around this new artefact, decorated with cunningly-worked leaves and vines... which abruptly began to writhe and twist as if caught in a breeze, though the air was quite still.

Kiam took a cautious step back, and then another as a line appeared down the centre, dividing swiftly so that the two halves swung outwards, revealing a mirrored, silver skein... it was clearly some sort of a _gate_...

A tall young man wearing a long, garish harlequin-coat over his other garments emerged through the shining mirror-door, glanced at Kiam through dark spikes of hair without much in the way of interest, replaced the stone trefoil leaf higher up and strode past her toward the _stedding _as though she were not there, the stone gates swinging closed behind him. Kiam recognised him vaguely from the Academy, she had arrived in his final year. He had one of those odd, southern names, 'Ch-' something. Though he did not seem to recognise her, certainly...

Kiam released the _saidar_ she had embraced the moment the opening gate had revealed the fellow and she realised that she might have a dangerous Madman to deal with... and followed him into the _stedding_, somewhat nonplussed to be so ignored... and feeling more than a little curious about what exactly that stone gate was and where it led to. Curiosity... she was getting as bad as the Lightborn!

Kiam shivered as the aura of the _stedding _washed over her, blinding her to the True Source. Well, psychotic male-channellers would not be a problem in _here_, at least. Though Flight from danger not an option either, of course. She never liked to be _grounded_, like everyone else who couldn't fly was. The young man had longer legs than her and walked faster, she found herself having to run a little to keep him in sight. She was distantly aware of Ogier soldiers watching from the trees, but they made no move to interfere with either of them.

"Chulchun!" Kiam exclaimed, finally remembering his name, "what are you doing here?" Chulchun had paused by an ancient, spreading yew, against which a sung-wood lute had been leant. He retrieved it and began to check the instrument carefully, twanging each string and listening intently for fear it had gone out of tune, still ignoring her. He had always been a strange youth, she recalled... introverted... but clearly, had grown stranger. There was but one reason for this. He must be Tainted.

"Chulchun..?" Kiam's voice held a hint of caution that she could not fully expunge. Chulchun looked up and gazed at her for a long moment. He looked thin, too thin. He was still very pretty, though... Kiam was unmoved by men's carnality, but still took as much of an aesthetic interest in male beauty as the next woman. She preferred boyish-looking men on the whole, though had always thought the Lightborn quite handsome, his eyes particularly... though she had never said so, of course.

"It's me, Kiam. Don't you remember me from the Academy?"

Chulchun smiled slightly, and began to strum the lute softly, his fingers slipping dexterously over the frets. Kiam found herself glad that they were in a _stedding_, Chulchun had always been very strong in the Power, and clearly was not himself... but at the same time, she rather wished that they were still outside, back at the strange stone portal from which he had emerged. She would be willing to let him set his lute against Vora's _sa'angreal_.

"Where does that odd stone gate lead to, Chulchun? _Answer me!_"

Chulchun abruptly ceased his playing and leaned toward her. Kiam tensed. She hated _stedding_, despite the peace and tranquillity they generated... their aura put _Aes Sedai _on the same powerless level as everyone else, and provided her with a rare reminder that compared with the tall, wiry young man who loomed over her, she was but a slight and feeble female... albeit, a helpless maid with the sharp, Power-wrought, ceramic-edged stiletto that had been plunged viciously into the chest of Veic Shuul Savoran, Flagservant, hidden up her sleeve... she considered reaching for it and decided not to. Yet.

"Chulchun, please tell me, where have you been? What is _inside_ that gate?"

Chulchun licked his lips, took a deep breath, and then, voice cracked from disuse, spoke two, soft words. His dark eyes held hers for a long moment, seeming to be trying to communicate something else, that went deeper than mere speech... then, he turned and paced away, resuming his strumming, playing an ancient lament, that of Jeren who had a sea named after him, long, long ago... a sea that was no longer there.

Kiam frowned after the strolling, Tainted Apprentice in his harlequin-coat. What had he meant by _that? _She did not have time for madmen (or _any _men, for that matter) she should go and find Mitsy... she was tired of being alone. Poor Chulchun, he had obviously lost his mind as much as Djonni had, though in a quieter way at least... well, he had _always _been quiet... but what had he _meant?_ Wind was invisible, it did not even have a colour, so how could it possibly be _black?_


End file.
